


Something Impossible

by theOestofOCs



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anchors, Archivist Sasha James, F/F, Family Feels, Fix-It, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, but a bit of plot snuck in there too, heavy on the comfort with this one folks, i mean not technically but still, wherein the power of gay friend groups single-handedly saves the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:02:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25276594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theOestofOCs/pseuds/theOestofOCs
Summary: Much to Elias’ dismay, Jon doesn’t actually want to be an Archivist.Also… well, as Georgie put it: “There are only two situations where you’d say someone ‘died in the line of duty’: if they were actually a literal soldier, or else if you’re a serial killer and you’re not actually that committed to pretending you didn’t kill them. Unless Gertrude died in a top-secret war that’s going on in the basement of the Magnus Institute, I see only one option here.”Jon glared, but Georgie shrugged. “Sorry, Jon, I just call it like I see it. Your boss is a serial killer and you’re next on his hit list. Probably best not to take his creepy cursed job position.”~In which Jon and Georgie are flatmates, the archives crew rock their dysfunction to the fullest, and the only thing that resembles canon is the way absolutely no one is cishet.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Everyone & Everyone, Georgie Barker & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Jude Perry & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Michael "Mike" Crew & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Michael "Mike" Crew & Jude Perry, Michael "Mike" Crew/Tim Stoker, Sasha James & Michael Shelley, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 120
Kudos: 662





	Something Impossible

**Author's Note:**

> This is heavily based on a [tumblr thread](https://tma-dumps.tumblr.com/post/613942823874658304/bittterblue-themlet-themlet-themlet) started by [@themlet](http://themlet.tumblr.com), imagining what would happen if Georgie and Jon were both trans gay disasters. It just started as a hilarious nonsense idea and kind of spiralled (no pun intended), and then before I knew it there was 30k on my hard drive and like, a full on plot? I don't know how that happened so feel free to ignore it. Enjoy some gratuitous bonding, and maybe just a little bit of redemption.
> 
> Except for Elias. He’s just a bastard.
> 
> Enjoy!

“…so that’s it, really. I’m a girl. Also, gay. But I know you’re straight, and honestly this hasn’t been working anyway, so I think it’s probably best if we break up,” Georgie finished. There. It didn’t matter how her girlfriend reacted, it was done.

That didn’t mean Georgie wasn’t a little hurt when the woman sitting across from her barked out a laugh. Her girlfriend—ex-girlfriend, now, she reminded herself—waved a hand apologetically when she saw Georgie’s face. “No, it’s—I’m not laughing at you!” she hurried to say. “Truly, I’m very happy for you, this is marvellous. It’s just, what I was about to say, or, that is—I mean—I’m a man,” he blurted, and oh, Georgie got the joke now. “I’ve been planning to go by Jonathan. Also, I think I might be—well, not gay, but, er. I think I might be bi?” 

There was a heartbeat of dead silence. Then Georgie was laughing, a wheezing chuckle that quickly gave way to her signature full-body guffaw, and Jonathan was tentatively joining in with his nervous snicker. In that moment Georgie knew two things beyond all doubt: one, they would never have worked as a couple, for reasons that were suddenly spectacularly clear; and two, like it or not, Jonathan was absolutely going to be her friend for the rest of their lives.

Jonathan would just have to suck it up and accept his fate, Georgie decided. Nothing could save him from this.

“That’s not normal,” Georgie pronounced when Jon called her, two years later and absolutely not panicking, from the back corner of the men’s room. 

Jon was _not_ panicking. He was simply having difficulty accurately weighing the relevant pros and cons, due to the unhelpful degree of adrenaline that had spiked when Elias offered him this new job. He just needed someone to help him clear his head, that was all, and Georgie was the only person he knew who was utterly unflappable in any situation. 

Perhaps, he was thinking now, a bit _too_ unflappable.

“I know it’s not normal,” Jon hissed into the phone. “Do you have anything helpful to offer?”

“I mean, you just aren’t qualified to be a Head Archivist,” Georgie continued, ignoring him. “Aren’t there other people there who’d be better suited for the job? Like, say, anyone who actually works in the Archives?”

Jon stiffened. “I’m sure Elias has his reasons for whatever hiring choices he may or may not make,” he snapped. “And what do you mean, I’m not qualified? I could be a Head Archivist! I’m perfectly capable of—”

“That’s not what I meant,” interrupted Georgie soothingly. “God knows you could do practically anything you put your mind to, you’re certainly stubborn enough. _And_ plenty smart, Jon, I know, you don’t have to say it. I just think it’s a bit suspicious that Elias would pull someone out of Library Research to stick them down in Archives, when there’s definitely more obvious choices to pick from. What happened to the previous Archivist, anyway?”

“Oh.” Jon didn’t really want to answer that question. “Well. That was Gertrude.”

As expected, Georgie spluttered. “ _Gertrude_ -Gertrude? The Gertrude you were telling me about all last week? The old woman who vanished without a trace except for the desk completely soaked in her own blood? That Gertrude?”

“The very same,” Jon grumbled.

“Jon,” Georgie said.

“I _know,_ ” Jon groused. “But the paycheck—”

“Jon, your boss thinks you’re acceptable cannon fodder to use against whatever killed Gertrude.”

Jon sighed, letting it trail off into a low, irritated groan. “That—it’s perfectly possible that something else is going on. Something innocuous, that would result in a _very good paycheck,_ did I mention the paycheck, Georgie—”

“Jon, I would much rather spot you for rent once in a while than have to find a new flatmate because mine died under mysterious and entirely avoidable circumstances,” Georgie told him, rather severely. “Besides, you really wouldn’t enjoy being a Head Archivist. I meant it when I said you could do it, but you know that isn’t what you’re trained for, and you’d get all stressed and grumpy and push yourself too hard again, and then your negative vibes would upset the Admiral. I really don’t think it would be a good fit for you,” she finished. “That’s even if it weren’t some plot that’ll probably end in you getting eaten by one of those horrible monsters you’re always telling me about.”

“They’re not _real,_ Georgie, just because every crackpot off the street comes in with a statement and the rest of us have to spend all our time researching precedence and cataloguing phenomena doesn’t mean—” Jon broke off with an effort. “I… hear what you’re saying, though. You’re… you’re right,” he admitted grudgingly. “The paycheck isn’t worth everything else. I’ll tell Elias I’m not qualified and to find another person for the job.”

“That seems like a good idea,” Georgie agreed. 

“Right.” Jon squared his shoulders.

“Don’t forget to hang up,” Georgie added. 

Jon scowled at his phone. He might have remembered. It was perfectly possible.

“Thanks, Georgie,” he muttered into the receiver. “And, well. I apologize for snapping at you earlier.”

“Don’t sweat it.” She sounded affectionate. “Now go out there and do your thing.”

Jon made sure to hang up the phone, took a deep breath, and did as she said.

“I see,” was all Elias said, face betraying nothing. “Is the paycheck not high enough? It is open for negotiation.”

 _Desk covered in blood,_ Jon reminded himself before forging on. “I’m sorry, Elias, I just don’t feel that I’m qualified.”

“Is it because the previous Archivist died in the line of duty?” Elias pressed, eyes glinting oddly in the light. “Because I can assure you, that was an isolated incident. It’s quite unlikely such a thing will happen to you.”

“Thank you,” Jon said firmly, “but no. You’ll have to find someone else to fill the position.”

Over spaghetti alfredo that night Jon filled Georgie in on the meeting, though she kept getting stuck on the bit about “dying in the line of duty.”

“So your boss is a murderer? That’s what you’re telling me?” she burst out.

“No!” Jon gaped at her. “No, Georgie, Elias is not a _murderer!_ You can’t just say things like that!”

Georgie was unrepentant. “There are only two situations where you’d say someone ‘died in the line of duty’: if they were actually a literal soldier, or else if you’re a serial killer and you’re not actually that committed to pretending you didn’t kill them. Unless there’s a war going on in the basement of the Magnus Institute, I see only one option here.”

Jon glared. She shrugged. “Sorry, Jon, I just call it like I see it. Your boss is a serial killer and you’re next on his hit list. Hopefully you’ve put him off by refusing his creepy cursed job position.”

Jon fed a piece of chicken to the Admiral, in a tetchy sort of way. Georgie rolled her eyes.

Jon came into work the next day to find a box beside his desk and a note in his inbox. EMPLOYEE TRANSFER AUTHORIZED BY ELIAS BOUCHARD – LIBRARY ASSISTANT JONATHAN SIMS REASSIGNED TO ARCHIVES, EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY, TO FILL POSITION OF ARCHIVAL ASSISTANT.

Jon could have sworn the ever-present watching sensation was just a little smug as he read that note. Or, rather, he could have, if he were willing to acknowledge the existence of an ever-present watching sensation, which he was not. Too much caffeine could make anyone a bit paranoid. Perhaps he should switch to tea in the mornings.

He packed up his things and moved downstairs. Nothing for it, after all. 

There wasn’t a desk available for him in the Archives.

“No one told us anything about a new assistant,” the woman with curly, natural black hair said, squinting at him from behind purple-framed glasses. “Did they, Tim?” 

Tim was, apparently, the bleached-blond Adonis lounging behind the corner desk. He shrugged. “Beats me.”

The third assistant, a tall, fat man with curly red hair and a frankly ridiculous number of freckles, frowned at the other two. “You’re both being very rude,” he scolded. Turning to Jon, he added, “Sorry about them, they mean well. I’m Martin, and that’s Sasha and Tim,” he indicated the others in turn. “I’m sure we’ll get all this sorted in a jiff.”

“It’s… nice to meet you, Martin. I’m Jon—er, Jonathan Sims,” Jon said slowly, before remembering himself and trying to shift his box to one arm so he could extend a hand to shake. Martin scrambled to help him and they wound up awkwardly clasping for each other’s hand with the box balanced between them. 

Martin was standing awfully close, too. 

Jon couldn’t help noticing he had very nice eyes. They were a sort of greyish-blue, making Jon think of the colour of the sky on a foggy day, but they also had a thin ring of pale green just around the pupils like a starburst of watery sunlight—

“Sasha.” Jon startled as Elias’ voice rang out from behind him. Quickly he snatched his box back from Martin and stepped out of the way, Elias striding past him without a second glance. “A word, if you would?”

Sasha tossed them all one last puzzled glance before following Elias into the office labelled “Head Archivist,” the door closing behind her with a click. 

“All right,” Martin clapped, flushing as Jon and Tim both turned to look at him. “I’ll, er, I’ll just put on some tea, shall I?”

He bustled off down the narrow hallway Jon had assumed led to archive storage space. “Is there a kitchen down here?” he asked Tim.

“Sort of,” Tim answered, clearly uninterested but taking the opportunity to lean back in his chair and play with a stress ball. “There’s a teeny little breakroom with, like, two chairs and a cupboard in it, but Martin’s fixed it up with a kettle and four different brands of tea, and he badgered Gertrude into getting it a proper mini-fridge, you know, before she kicked it.” Jon winced at his phrasing, but Tim didn’t seem to notice, busy tossing his stress ball at the ceiling like a basketball player. “It’s still kind of a creepy little space, though, there’s just one of those ugly fluorescent lights in the ceiling, and it always flickers no matter how many times we get the bulb replaced.” He shrugged. “Martin’s the only one who really bothers to go in there. The rest of us pretty much pretend this is the only room in the Archives, whenever we can. Like, I know we’re all just here to research spooky stuff, but that doesn’t mean we have to commit to the aesthetic, you know?” 

Jon pressed his lips together, but before he could respond, the Archivist’s door opened and Sasha bounced out before a predictably stoic Elias. 

“I look forward to working with you, Ms. James,” Elias said before gliding back up the stairs and out of the Archives.

“Well, now I know why you’re here, Jonathan Sims!” Sasha burst out as soon as Elias was out of earshot, turning to shout down the hallway. “You’re to replace me!”

Now that got Tim’s attention. “What’s that mean?”

Sasha was grinning, though, and she puffed out her chest as Martin appeared in the doorway, clutching four steaming mugs. “I,” Sasha announced dramatically, “have been promoted!”

“Called it,” Tim grinned, relaxing again, and Martin exclaimed, “Oh, you’re filling Gertrude’s position, then, Sasha? Congratulations!”

Jon told himself firmly that he was not jealous.

“Well, not exactly filling it,” Sasha admitted. “Elias offered me the position of Interim Head Archivist, ‘until such time as he can find his ideal candidate,’” she deepened her voice in a bad imitation of Elias’ cadence. “Technically I think I’m still listed as Archival Assistant on the payroll, but I do get a fairly excellent paycheck out of it, so that’s good!”

Tim scowled, though. “What’s that supposed to mean, ‘ideal candidate’?” he demanded. “You are the ideal candidate! You’ve been working with the Institute for years! You were Gertrude’s right-hand woman! ‘Ideal candidate,’ my arse!”

Jon tried to look unobtrusive.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sasha waved him off. “Probably he’s just trying not to make it seem like he replaced Gertrude too quickly, or something like that. The important thing is, I get my own office. Jon, you can have my desk, just let me clear it out and we’ll be all set.”

“That sounds just fine,” Jon said awkwardly. “Er, congratulations on the promotion, Sasha.” 

Sasha grinned back, adopting her Elias Voice again. “I look forward to working with you, Mr. Sims!”

Georgie was ready to storm the Magnus Institute that evening. “He can’t just demote you because you didn’t fall for his serial killer posturing!” she fumed. 

Jon finally managed to calm her down by pointing out that his paycheck was identical to what it’d been that morning, and he’d already signed the transfer papers, so it was really a moot point either way. “Besides, my new coworkers are—well, they’re not the worst, I suppose,” he added. “Martin makes quite good tea.”

When he looked up, Georgie was staring at him. 

“What?” he demanded, glancing down to make sure he hadn’t spilled food all over himself or something equally embarrassing. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Georgie said quickly. He glared, and she giggled a bit. “It’s just, your face did that thing where you, like, obviously want to get all soft and gooey but also you hate emotions, so you end up looking like a constipated alpaca and it’s usually because you have a new crush.”

“I do not—” Jon began loudly. 

“No, no, forget I said anything,” Georgie interrupted. “Go on, tell me more about this Martin guy.”

Sometimes, Jon thought, it would be nice if looks could kill. 

Apparently, Gertrude had been in the habit of recording every single statement by herself, which Sasha found absurd. 

“I always thought Gertrude was sharp as a tack, but given the state of the filing back here I may have to rethink that evaluation,” Sasha groaned when she first made her way back from exploring the dusty storage rooms. “Right, I don’t have time for this. You three are in charge of recording and researching the statements, I’m busy with—” she waved a hand tiredly “—everything else.”

So the archival assistants set up a rotating schedule for recording duty. The first time Jon walked into the recording room, tucked away behind one of the many doors lining the narrow hallway he’d seen on his first day, he turned around and walked right back out.

“I’m a librarian,” he told Sasha desperately, as Tim did a poor job suppressing his laughter in the background. “Everything upstairs is nice and clean and organized, and academic, the way research is _supposed_ to be. Sasha. Sasha, there are files propping up the chair leg.”

“Well, this is your job now, isn’t it?” Sasha argued as she propelled him back down the hallway. “Processing new statements and maintaining the Archive.”

“I can’t maintain what doesn’t exist!” Jon shouted. “There are four overstuffed, unlabelled boxes of statements on the corner of the recording desk alone! This has to be some kind of safety code violation!”

“Try working in Artefact Storage sometime,” Sasha told him unsympathetically, and shut the door behind her. Jon sighed and sulked back over to the desk, though not before moving the Leaning Tower of Gertrude onto the floor.

Martin came by a few minutes later with another cup of tea. Jon reminded himself that feeling warm inside was a natural response to drinking something hot.

Time passed. Georgie’s podcast was getting ever more popular, and once she invited some sham youtube ghost hunter to interview. Melanie King wound up staying for dinner, much to Jon’s chagrin, and then she just… kept coming round? 

“She adds a really interesting perspective to my episodes,” Georgie said when he asked. “I think I might wind up offering her a partnership, if she ever wants to leave Ghost Hunt UK. Besides,” she winked, “I think we have pretty good chemistry.”

Jon grimaced and resigned himself to setting an extra place at the table once a week.

Apparently Georgie wouldn’t rest without payback, though. “So how’s Martin doing?”

Jon fumbled the book he was holding and snapped, “He’s fine.” 

“You are being nice to him, right?” Georgie squinted at him.

Jon frowned. “Of course I am.” She didn’t stop squinting, and he scowled harder. “I always say ‘thank you’ when he brings me tea, and yesterday I even asked how his mother was doing,” he insisted. “She’s fine, if you’re interested.”

“Oh, Jon,” Georgie sighed.

Eventually Jon found himself growing less suspicious about his recent transfer, and more comfortable with his place in the Archives. He still didn’t know what to make of the circumstances that landed him there, but after a month passed with all seeming perfectly normal and above-board, he relaxed a bit. 

A mistake, of course.

Jon was fully unprepared to find Elias waiting for him at the doors to the Institute first thing in the morning, but Elias, apparently, was the opposite. 

“Walk with me, Jonathan,” was all he said, turning on his heel to ascend the stairway that led to the more arcane historical divisions and his own office. He didn’t look back, and for a fleeting moment Jon considered just pretending he hadn’t heard anything and going about his day, but something told him that wasn’t a wise course of action.

“Don’t dawdle,” Elias called, sounding cheery, but Jon couldn’t shake the impression it was a threat. He scrambled to catch up and match Elias’ stride.

“Now, I’ve heard your concerns, and I will grant that when I first approached you, you were less than perfectly qualified for the position. However, you’ve had some time to familiarize yourself with the Archives in the time since we last spoke, and I’ve no doubt that by now you would be an excellent fit.” They reached Elias’ office and he gestured for Jon to precede him inside.

“So,” Elias continued, settling in behind his desk as Jon lingered awkwardly in the middle of the room, “Now that you’ve acquired the necessary experience, are you willing to accept the position of Head Archivist?”

Jon didn’t know what to say.

No, that wasn’t true. “I’m sorry, Elias,” he started, rather harshly, “are you suggesting that four weeks of cataloguing esoteric statements is an adequate substitute for a Master’s certificate in archival research?”

Elias frowned. “Perhaps not in all cases,” he conceded, “but I think you’d manage just fine, Jonathan. Now, before you say anything more, let me clarify what your new starting salary would be.” 

He pushed a slip of paper across the desk, and it _had_ to be just for dramatic effect—Jon made a mental note to inform Martin of how absurdly theatrical their boss was—but all thought flew out of his head when he saw just how many zeroes there were on the page.

“To start,” Elias repeated.

Good Lord.

“I—I’ll have to think it over,” Jon choked out.

“I’m afraid not,” Elias broke in with a cold smile. “This is a now-or-never sort of offer, Jonathan. I’ll need your answer immediately. Will you accept the position?”

Jon stared at him, and Elias stared back impassively, though—well, Jon could almost swear—but surely his mind was playing tricks on him. Still. Had Elias’ eyes always been quite so _green?_

God, those were a lot of zeroes. Jon risked another glance at the salary Elias was offering and almost accepted on the spot.

 _Serial killer, Jon,_ Georgie’s voice echoed in his mind. 

_That’s almost certainly untrue, and a baseless accusation is_ not _a good reason to turn down such a ridiculous offer,_ Jon argued back.

 _It_ is _a ridiculous offer, though, isn’t it?_ Jon’s mental version of Georgie pointed out obnoxiously. _Even if he isn’t one of those creatures you’re always recording stories about, who wants to—oh, I don’t know, skin you and wear you like a flesh suit—there still has to be one hell of a downside if he’s this determined to get you in the job._

Jon really was spending far too much time with Georgie. 

_All that was left of Gertrude was blood,_ he thought, as he opened his mouth again to accept Elias’ offer. _Just like Thomas—or was he called Daniel? The Guest for Mr. Spider. Dead and nameless now, bloody and horrible, unknown, unremembered._

“Thank you, Elias, but I’m quite content with where I am currently,” he found himself saying stiffly. He didn’t think he was imagining the shock in Elias’ eyes, though he told himself it was shock and not fury, but he didn’t stay to find out. Muttering something unintelligible, he slipped swiftly out the door, hurrying all the way downstairs until he was huddled behind his desk in the Archives.

He called Georgie.

“So many zeroes,” he croaked when she picked up.

“Wh—zeroes? What are you talking about? Jon, please tell me you haven’t been possessed by a, a binary ghost or something.”

“Elias,” Jon clarified. “Offered the job again. God, Georgie, it’s more than double the salary he named originally—”

“Don’t take it,” Georgie interrupted. “Look, Jon, I know it’s a tempting offer, but—”

“No, no, too late for all that,” Jon mumbled, still rather in shock, he thought. “Asked me to decide on the spot. No time to call you for advice.”

“Oh.” Georgie sounded wary. “Well, what did you tell him?”

“Damn you. Damn _you,_ Georgie,” Jon told her, suddenly remembering why he’d dialed in the first place. “If it wasn’t for you and your damn paranoia I could be taking home an absolutely ludicrous paycheck this very week.”

Georgie laughed. “So that’d be a no, then? Sorry, Jon, but I can’t say I’m not relieved. Shame about the money and all, but I really don’t get a good feeling about this Elias of yours.”

“Not mine,” Jon muttered. “Not enough money for that.”

“Alright, sure,” Georgie chuckled again. “If there’s nothing else I really do have to go, though, Melanie and I are recording a new episode this afternoon.”

“Yes, of course, have fun,” Jon told her and hung up.

“What was all that about?”

Jon startled. He hadn’t realized—but of course everyone else would be here by now. Tim was sitting in the desk across from him, eyebrows raised as he waited for an answer, and as Jon looked Martin skulked, red-faced, out of the hallway and slid into his own chair. Embarrassed to have been eavesdropping, Jon guessed, though he could hardly blame him. At least Sasha was locked away in her office, hopefully unaware of their discussion.

He coughed. “Elias offered me a promotion this morning, which I refused. He, ah—” Jon glanced at Martin, smiling as much as he could “—he wrote a number down on a piece of paper and made me read it quietly to myself. It was all very melodramatic.”

Martin laughed, and Jon smiled a bit bigger.

“Sorry to interrupt your… whatever that was,” Tim wrinkled his nose, “but, seriously, you turned down a promotion? Why? Don’t tell me you love the Archives too much to leave them, because we all know that’s not true. You hate it down here.”

“I don’t hate it!” Jon objected. “Just because it’s disorganized, and dusty, and mostly full of completely unverifiable stories that are largely made up by attention-seekers and—” Tim smirked at him, and Jon cut himself off with a cough. “I don’t hate it. And besides, I wouldn’t even have been leaving the Archives—I just don’t think I’m qualified for the position, that’s all.”

Tim wasn’t laughing anymore, and in fact was now glaring furiously at Jon. 

“Elias offered you Sasha’s position?” he demanded.

Oh. Right.

“N—no,” Jon tried weakly. “I mean—well—I mean, technically, Sasha’s position is _Interim_ Head, so—”

“No, no, no,” Tim bit out, standing up to pace behind his desk. “You don’t get to waltz down here and take over, just because some sexist arsehole doesn’t want to hire someone with actual experience and qualifications. God forbid he do that, when he could have the guy who’s been here barely a month and can’t even handle a messy room—”

“Tim!” Martin interrupted sharply, as Jon shrank into himself. “Jon just said he _refused_ the position, stop taking it out on him.”

For an instant it looked like Tim might round on Martin instead, but Sasha stepped out of her office before he could.

“The walls are actually quite thin down here,” she observed with a severe look at the three of them. They all wilted under her gaze, a blush showing on Martin’s face and heat rising in Jon’s cheeks. 

Sasha sighed. “Look, I—thank you, Tim, for being willing to…defend my honour, or whatever. I’ll be talking to Elias about this later, see if I can’t force him to hire me for this position officially so he can stop trying to pawn it off on untrained library assistants. No offense, Jon.”

“No,” Jon blurted. “I mean, none taken, of course, I think it’s weird too, but don’t—unless you want him to raise your salary, that would be quite fair under the circumstances, but—”

“Spit it out, Jon,” Sasha snapped.

“I—don’t take the position,” Jon said, regretting it immediately.

“What, you want to keep your options open, boss?” Tim sniped.

 _“No,”_ Jon growled. “I—I just—never mind, it’s utterly stupid. Georgie’s just got me convinced Elias is a, a serial killer or something, who has some ‘evil plan’ for whoever accepts the job of Head Archivist. Superstitious nonsense, of course. I’m not thinking clearly this morning.” He huffed. “Please, Sasha, ignore me. You certainly deserve the job, if you want it.”

Sasha was looking at him speculatively. “Is it just because of what happened to Gertrude?” she asked.

“I mean, no,” Jon stuttered. He’d _said_ to ignore him. “There’s also, because he offered me the job right after Gertrude died? I mean, far too much money in the first place, and I was—am—completely unqualified, so I was sure there must be others better suited to the position, and of course I was right,” he gestured wildly in Sasha’s general direction. “So Georgie said it was better to refuse since I wouldn’t enjoy it anyway and it really was quite weird, to offer that out of nowhere. And then the very next day I was transferred to the Archives, and you took over instead, and I thought that would be the end of it but this morning Elias implied it was all to give me the, the ‘necessary experience’ to be Head Archivist. Which is obviously nonsense, of course, but he seemed quite convinced. And I suppose, with all the statements we read down here, and—and all that was left of Gertrude was, was far too much blood—and it doesn’t help that Georgie now refers to Elias exclusively as ‘Jon’s serial killer boss,’ I keep asking her not to but she just laughs at me, and really it’s not funny, there’s no evidence—”

“You do get awfully hung up on evidence, don’t you, Jon?” Sasha said lightly, though her eyes were serious. “That _is_ quite a lot of weird things all piled together.”

“I’ll say,” Tim burst out. He seemed more agitated than ever. “I thought Elias was just, like, cycling through random guys and Jon was next on his list, but now he has, what, a vendetta out for… _this_ dude? Look at him! I mean, no offense, Jon, but you’re not really ‘obsession’ material, you know?” 

Jon thought he heard Martin make a noise, but no one else paid him any mind, so after a moment Jon assumed it’d been a chair squeaking.

“I’m just saying, I don’t get it,” Tim finished. 

Jon spread his hands helplessly. “Me neither?”

“Alright, well,” Sasha clapped her hands together. Jon realized suddenly she looked very tired. “Much to think about. Not a lot we can do about any of it now, though. Unless someone has a suggestion?”

“Maybe if we ignore him, he’ll leave us all alone?” Jon offered.

“Right,” Tim sat down right on the edge of his desk and started rubbing his forehead.

“Sure, Jon,” Sasha agreed amiably. 

Martin gave him an encouraging thumbs-up. “It’s worth a try?”

Jon spent the afternoon recording statements, and ignored the way conversations abruptly stopped when he came out for breaks. 

It was fine. Everything was fine, and no one was talking about him, or angry that he was apparently trying to steal Sasha’s job, even though he’d _refused_ it, twice, despite being offered lucrative amounts of money—

Everything was fine.

Jon stayed a little later than usual in the recording room, taking his time to wrap up the last statement. Still, when he left, he was surprised to find Tim hanging around, apparently waiting for him.

“Whoa!” Tim laughed. “Chill out there, Jon, you look like you’re bracing for an attack or something.”

“Ah,” Jon felt a bit foolish. “I’m… not?”

A flash of hurt crossed Tim’s face before it was swallowed by his usual grin, and Jon felt even worse than he already had. Of course Tim wasn’t waiting around to—what, hit him? Yell at him? Stupid.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said hurriedly, cutting off whatever joke Tim had started to make. “It’s just the statements, they always get me jumping at shadows by the end of the day. Anyway, what are you still doing here?”

Tim’s bright smile faded into a more real smirk as he hoisted his work bag over his shoulder. “I thought maybe we could grab some drinks or something. As a sort of…” he shrugged, looking a bit self-conscious. “Maybe an apology? Or, like, a ‘thanks for not stealing Sasha’s job’ thing.” 

Jon was taken aback for a moment before something occurred to him. He raised an eyebrow. “I thought I wasn’t—how did you put it—‘obsession material’?”

“Ew!” Tim wrinkled his nose, then smoothed his expression just as fast. “I mean, uh, don’t put yourself down like that, Jon! You’re—er, plenty attractive! For sure! To the right people! Just not, you know. To me, specifically. Anyways! Want to grab drinks in a strictly platonic sense? As two people who are both equally uninterested in dating each other?”

“Tim, has anyone ever told you how charming you are?” Jon asked, gathering his own things to follow Tim out.

“As a matter of fact, quite a few people have, yes,” Tim shot him a dazzling grin.

Jon rolled his eyes. “In that case, they must have been entirely blinded by your”—he waved a dismissive hand—“‘sex appeal,’ and failed to grasp the basics of your actual personality.”

Tim slapped his hand over his heart dramatically. “I’m wounded! You wound me, Jon! How can you say such hurtful things?”

“It’s a gift,” Jon deadpanned. 

Tim gave him soulful eyes. “How about now?” he asked, his voice suddenly husky. “Charming enough for you?”

“I’m afraid not,” Jon said. “I, ah—well, as Georgie would say, I’m quite immune to sexual wiles.”

“Damn!” Tim clicked his tongue. “That knocks out ninety percent of my repertoire. Fine, you’ll just have to learn to love bad puns, because that’s pretty much all I can offer outside my, er, ‘sexual wiles.’” He was clearly laughing at him.

“Tim, I just don’t see this relationship working out,” Jon said gravely. Then: “What pub are you thinking of? I hope you’re paying.”

Tim fist-pumped. “Yes! How does the Bishop’s Finger sound?”

Jon shrugged his assent, and Tim crowed. 

Jon ended up enjoying himself, a bit to his own surprise. He texted Georgie to let her know he’d be home late, and she blew up his phone with enthusiastic replies, which he ignored. Tim wound up being quite good company, even if he did make far too many friends everywhere he went and then insist on introducing them to Jon. 

Jon hunched into himself a little when Tim dragged over the person he’d been talking to for the past fifteen minutes, grinning madly.

“Mike, I want you to meet my buddy Jon,” Tim said. “Jon, this is Mike Crew!”

Mike was a small man, shorter even than Jon, with eyes a startlingly light blue and pale skin. He was wearing a sky-blue turtleneck and eyeing Jon with something like surprise. 

“You’re Jon,” he said, not quite a question. 

“Pleased to meet you?” Jon tried. 

“Likewise, I’m sure,” Mike murmured. He turned back to Tim, saying something about a drink, and Jon felt unaccountably relieved as that thousand-yard stare shifted away.

The rest of the evening passed without incident, and when Tim dropped Jon off at home he found himself grudgingly telling Georgie that he might, perhaps, be bonding with his coworkers. 

She was far too smug about it all, in Jon’s opinion.

“I knew you had it in you!” she cheered. “Somewhere underneath all those grouchy eyebrows there’s a heart of gold, Jonathan Sims!”

“Alright, alright, that’s enough of that,” Jon grumbled. “I’d like to go to bed now, if you don’t mind?”

Georgie just laughed at him.

“What? Why?”

Georgie sighed at him. “Jon, you work at a research facility cataloguing paranormal experiences.”

Jon frowned. “I, well, I _suppose,_ but—”

“It’s really not complicated, you dork,” Georgie said, exasperated. That was hardly fair, Jon felt. She’d brought this up out of nowhere halfway through breakfast. Jon needed more than half a cup of coffee in him before he could be expected to process anything properly. “You’d be an ideal guest for _What The Ghost,_ with all your spooky Magnus knowledge. So? Do you want to be on the next episode?”

Jon tried to think it over, then gave it up and shrugged. “Why not?”

Georgie beamed. “Great! I’ll let Melanie know!”

So Jon wound up sitting on the couch next to his roommate and her girlfriend (were they technically dating? Jon was terrible at keeping up with these things), a mic in his face and the promise of at least an hour to come spent talking about ghosts, of all things. 

Jon had some regrets. 

Still, he’d promised Georgie. He couldn’t very well back out now. He sighed and resigned himself as best he could.

“Hello, and welcome to another episode of _What the Ghost!_ I’m your host, Georgie Barker—”

“And I’m Melanie King!” Melanie cut in.

“—and today we’ll be discussing the chilling story of Marcia Jones, a part-time nanny who barely escaped with her life after encountering something she could only describe as ‘supernatural.’ We’re joined by special guest Jonathan Sims, employee at the Magnus Institute for Paranormal Research, where he may or may not risk his life daily to satisfy the demands of an all-knowing, evil boss who probably feeds on human fear or something—”

“Georgie!” Jon spluttered, barely remembering to speak into the mic as he glared. “That’s highly inappropriate and almost certainly untrue!”

Melanie was taken aback. _“Almost_ certainly?”

“I—” Jon hesitated. “El—er, my boss, that is, he’s perfectly… I mean, he’s not… look, I really don’t want to lose my job.”

Georgie clicked her tongue significantly. “Gotcha,” was all she said. “Moving right along…” 

Georgie launched into the script, telling the story of a nanny working in a house where the electricity never quite worked properly, tending to a pair of small children who seemed to waste away no matter how much they were fed and avoiding the gaze of their mother, who never said a word. One day Marcia had walked in on the woman when she was with her offspring, and realized why she’d never seen her open her mouth: there was nothing inside it but rows upon rows of teeth. She was using them to tear into something that had once been alive, and feeding the bloody scraps to the children, who were growing new teeth of their own.

“‘I backed away from the door—you learn how to walk quietly, when you work in a house like that—and got out as fast as I could. I never went back.’ Today, twenty years after Marcia’s story takes place, there’s no record that the Enyo family ever existed at all.” Georgie sat back with a sigh. “Well, what do you guys think?”

“It’s certainly an unsettling one, Georgie,” Melanie mused.

Jon frowned. “Definitely a point against her credibility, that we can’t even prove the family existed.”

“Wait, are you a skeptic, Jon?” Melanie was incredulous. They’d only spoken a few times, and never for long—Georgie was the one who really carried their conversation whenever they crossed paths. “I thought you worked as a paranormal researcher.”

“Yes, and that means I come across plenty of stories made up by people who just want a bit of attention,” Jon snapped back.

“Well, be that as it may, have you come across anything like this story in your work, Jon?” Georgie intervened quickly.

Jon opened his mouth, then actually thought about the question. “Well…” Reluctantly, he admitted, “There have been one or two statements I’ve looked into that may have some parallels.”

“Really?” Georgie was the picture of intrigue. “Can you tell us anything more?”

“I can’t disclose subjects’ names, of course, or any personal details,” Jon started. “And the statement it reminds me of is far from an identical story, enough that the similarities might be purely coincidental.”

Melanie rolled her eyes. “But…?”

Jon sighed. “There was one account I was cataloguing last week, a man who fancied himself a vampire hunter. Said he’d met his first monster when he was a teenager, living on the streets at the time for unrelated reasons. He described it as a woman, who seemed a bit odd but trustworthy enough when she invited him to her home and promised him food and shelter for as long as he needed it. It was only later that he realized she’d never actually _spoken_ a word. Like Ms. Jones, he walked in on the so-called ‘vampire’ by chance, though this one was opening its mouth to feed on another teenager in a separate room. He described it as a monster with rows of long, pointed teeth like that of a shark, plunging those teeth into the other teen’s neck and tearing out a great chunk of flesh.” 

Jon’s voice started to mimic the cadence of Trevor Herbert the way it did when he’d first read out the statement. He didn’t notice, gazing dreamily into the middle distance. “Blood started to spurt from the boy’s spasming body, as the creature’s throat began to twitch. Its jaw detached, and a long, tubular tongue snaked out of its throat and clamped onto the gushing wound. There was an awful slurping sound, the first noise he’d ever really heard the creature make, as the tongue sucked the blood from the victim’s throat. It had so many teeth, there couldn’t possibly be room in its throat for a windpipe or anything besides that horrible tongue. 

“The statement-giver lay there, watching as the monster’s stomach began to distend and swell, for what felt like hours. Finally the vampire finished. Its tongue retracted back into its throat, still dripping blood onto the now-pale corpse, and it lay back upon the floor, apparently contented.”

Jon cleared his throat, coming back to himself all at once. “Ah, the—the boy escaped by stabbing the creature, whatever it may have been, where it lay, and then setting the body on fire. He came in to give his statement in his old age, shortly before he passed away, so this would all have taken place sometime in the late 1950s or early ’60s. That’s… that’s all, really.”

“Wow,” Georgie said after a moment of silence.

“Wait, but if they can’t talk, how did the vampire convince him to come home with her?” Melanie asked, brow furrowed.

“This particular statement-giver assumed these ‘vampires’ possessed some ‘instinctive form of hypnosis or mind control,’ as he put it,” Jon explained tiredly. “However, I want to emphasize that this was the story of a child experiencing a highly traumatic event. This particular individual’s account had the ring of someone telling the truth as he remembered it, but all the same, that doesn’t mean it was an _accurate_ retelling of events. The human mind has been known to construct alternate versions of events when it cannot handle the truth, especially in children that have been faced with unprecedented trauma; and further experiences of this ‘vampire hunter’ were equally dubious in their authenticity.”

“Still, it’s weird that these two accounts are so similar,” Melanie pointed out doggedly. “I mean, when you think ‘vampire,’ you don’t think ‘bunch of teeth in a trenchcoat’—or, you know, flesh-coat, or whatever. You think of, like, a person with a pair of fangs and a hate on for garlic, right? Plus that detail about them never speaking. That’s not something I’d dream up, if I wanted to make up a story about evil vampire beasts, and the fact that the same description was given in two completely different accounts…”

“It’s an unlikely coincidence, to be sure,” Jon conceded.

“I don’t know that I’d call it a coincidence at all,” Melanie countered.

“So, if it is true,” Georgie mused, “would the creature Marcia encountered have been, what—raising its young?”

“That, or turning someone else’s,” Jon added darkly.

“Jon, that’s horrible!” Georgie gave him a look. 

“Sorry,” Jon backtracked. “I—you’re probably right. It seems to be a totally separate, parasitic species, it wouldn’t make sense for them to have human origins, biologically speaking. If they were real. Which, in all likelihood, they are not.”

“Right,” Melanie muttered uneasily.

Georgie cleared her throat. “Regardless, Marcia’s encounter was certainly an uncanny one, and the Enyo family—whoever, or whatever, they really were—may still be out there. Watch out for vampires, I guess! Thank you for listening to another episode of _What the Ghost!_ Tune in next time for the story of a truly haunted hospital and the nurse who barely escaped it.”

She switched off her mic, and without missing a beat she turned to Jon. “So what was that about?”

He stared at her, lost. “What… was what about?”

Georgie glanced at Melanie, who was giving Jon a cynical look. 

_“What?”_ Jon demanded. “I don’t know what you mean! Did I mess up your episode? You could have said something, or—or kicked me, or—”

“No.” Georgie gave a frustrated huff. “You didn’t mess up the episode, Jon.”

“Actually, I think this one will wind up being pretty popular, thanks to you,” Melanie added.

Georgie nodded distractedly. “I just—where did that story come from, Jon? What was with the _voice?_ ”

Jon looked at her blankly. 

“Here,” Melanie pushed forward, gently reaching past Georgie to mess with the recording software. After a moment, she hit “play,” and Jon’s voice came out of the computer, playing back what he’d said. A weird echo effect came in when he started describing the creature in detail, and Georgie made a face, but it wasn’t distorted enough that Jon couldn’t hear what they were talking about.

“I suppose… habit?” he offered. “I do the same thing when I’m recording statements at the Institute, I think. It’s not on purpose.”

“Do you just have all the statements you’ve read memorized, then?” Melanie seemed genuinely interested.

“Oh, God, no,” Jon shuddered at the thought. “There are far too many for that. Honestly, I’ve no idea how I managed to remember this one so clearly. It just… came out.”

Georgie hummed thoughtfully as Melanie started packing up the equipment.

“You think your boss really does feed on human fear?” she asked him later. Jon choked on his drink.

“That’s not what I—Georgie, I thought you were joking! Of course Elias doesn’t _feed on human fear,_ please stop being quite so ridiculous—”

“We’re having a games night,” Tim announced the next day at work. 

“We are?” Martin blinked. 

Tim nodded firmly. “Thursday evening. My place. Bring a friend, or a date, whatever, just be there.” He stared at each of them in turn until they promised.

“Any particular reason for this proclamation?” Sasha inquired.

Tim made a face. “This guy I met the other day—yeah, Jon, you remember Mike?—wants to meet up with me, and I don’t exactly want to tell him _no_ because he’s really hot, but… I dunno, I got weird vibes from him. Wanted to have a group of people I trust around if he turns out to be, like, a lifesucking monster or something.”

“Oh, I see!” Sasha said, a teasing gleam in her eye. “We’re your monster-proofers. I’m glad you trust us to vet your dating choices, Timothy.”

Tim groaned theatrically. “Sure, fine, however you want to look at it. Monster-proofers. Why not.”

Jon invited Georgie to games night, which she was predictably enthusiastic about. Once she stopped smugly congratulating him on having friends she asked if she could bring Melanie along. 

Jon shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

When Thursday evening arrived and they all turned up on Tim’s doorstep, Jon was a bit relieved to see he wasn’t the only one who’d actually brought friends. Martin had come alone, but Sasha had apparently invited a plump woman wearing a lilac hijab, who she introduced as “Basira.” “Basira’s helped us out with research from time to time,” Sasha explained. “She’s with the police”—here Tim grimaced in the background—“and I really wanted to introduce you all to her!” 

Privately, Jon suspected Sasha might be using the party to test out befriending her police officer the same way Tim was using it to test Mike, but he supposed that was none of his business. Regardless, between all the guests and the Archives staff, they had quite a full house for games night.

Martin proposed they play a round of Mafia once they all got settled in. Jon had only played a few times before, mostly when he was in university, but he got into the swing of it along with everyone else. He discovered he could be a bit paranoid.

“I want to trust you, Martin, I do, but you’re hiding _something,_ I just don’t know what it is…”

Martin looked almost genuinely hurt. “You really think I killed Sasha? Really, Jon?”

Sasha sat off to the side, cheerfully munching on the microwaved popcorn Tim had provided. She, Basira, Georgie and Melanie were all “out” already, and it was down to Jon, Martin and Mike, with one Mafia member remaining. Tim had been narrating very enthusiastically, though he seemed a bit disappointed every round he didn’t get to describe someone’s graphic death. The doctor had been doing a good job so far.

Jon ground his teeth. “I don’t _know!_ But you’re keeping secrets, and I can’t trust you if I don’t know what they are!”

“You know it’s either me or Mike, so you’re just going to have to choose who you want to trust!”

Mike broke in lazily. “For the record, Jon, you can trust me.” Jon eyed him dubiously, and he gave a distant sort of smile. He was wearing a different shirt tonight, and Jon could see the branching white scar peeking out from under his collar and climbing up his neck.

Jon agonized between them for another long, fraught moment, before heaving a breath and making his choice. “I accuse Mike of being the last remaining member of the Mafia.”

“Seconded!” Martin hurried out, squeaky with relief.

Mike snapped his fingers. “Darn it, you caught me.” He seemed more amused than anything.

Jon sagged with relief while Martin grabbed his card and flipped it over to reveal the ace of hearts. “I was the doctor, you twit!” he exclaimed, waving it in Jon’s face. “Do you have any idea how many times I saved your life? Georgie was determined to off you! I cannot believe you nearly—”

“Wait a second,” Tim’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know Georgie was the one who kept trying to murder Jon?” 

“Martin,” Sasha said slowly, delight dawning over her face. “Did you _cheat?”_

Jon watched in fascination as Martin’s face turned abruptly red enough to rival a stoplight. “I—well—look, I couldn’t just let them go around killing people, right, so—and it wasn’t every round or anything! Just… you know… once in a while? Maybe?”

“Aha!” Jon crowed, suddenly realizing—“I was right! You _were_ guilty of something!”

Martin gave up and hid his face in his jumper. “Not what you thought I was guilty of, though,” he muttered, muffled by the fabric.

“No, I suppose not,” Jon conceded, smiling at him. Martin’s eyes crinkled as he smiled back.

“Hmm,” Mike said from the corner. Jon glanced at him to see an odd expression crossing his face, a compressed sort of intensity somehow combined with easy resignation. “I think I’ll have to keep coming to these game nights, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Oh, is this a weekly thing?” Georgie asked, eyebrows shooting up.

“I mean, it wasn’t going to be,” Tim said, glancing around.

“But I don’t see why it shouldn’t,” Sasha added quickly. “I’m sure having fun!”

Tim glanced at her and she jerked her head towards the couch Jon and Martin were sitting on. Tim sighed without even looking at them and agreed, “Yeah, why not? If that’s something you all would want, I’d be down.”

“Great,” Mike said, pleased. “I’ll bring snacks next time.”

Jon wasn’t really sure what had just happened, but Georgie looked excited, which meant he should probably prepare for the worst.

Martin seemed happy, though. The grin splitting his face was almost too bright to look at, his cheeks flushed and grey-blue eyes sparkling. “Count me in!” he blurted excitedly.

Jon hummed quietly to himself. Maybe not the _worst._

“Me too.” He could deal with a few frivolous games, once in a while.

A few days later Jon bumped into Mike as he made his way into work. 

“Oh,” Jon stammered dumbly when he saw who it was. “You—I suppose you’re looking for Tim, right? I can—”

Mike chuckled at him, shaking his head lightly. “Thanks,” he smiled, “but I’m actually here to speak with Elias. No need to trouble yourself, I know where he is.”

“Right,” Jon said slowly. 

“See you round, Jon,” Mike waved, making his way up the stairs.

“See you,” Jon repeated, a beat late. He watched Mike until he was out of sight. 

“Damn it,” Jon muttered, then followed him.

“…can tell Simon if he tries anything I’m _really_ never going to join his weird little polycule-cult-whatever,” Mike’s voice floated out the closed door of Elias’ office. “That’s all, really.”

“Well, I make no such promises,” a foreign voice answered darkly. The speaker had an odd drawl, like they were stretching out and viciously savoring every word. “A favor from the Eye is no small thing, after all.” 

“Fair enough, I suppose,” Mike replied. “But I really think you should reconsider. Try coming to next week’s games night and see how you feel.”

Elias’ sigh carried. “You don’t have to—oh, hell. _Go away, Jon.”_

Jon jumped back with a gasp. He was halfway to the Archives before it occurred to him that Elias shouldn’t have had any way of knowing he was there. 

He kept up the half-walk, half-run he was doing until he reached his desk, anyway.

Maybe the door had been open a crack, and Elias had seen him through it. That had to be it. 

(Jon had been sure the office door was closed.)

“Jon are you—are you alright?” 

Jon started, swivelling in his chair wildly to meet Martin’s concerned eyes. He slumped again. “Ah—yes, I’m perfectly fine. Thank you, Martin. Well. No, actually, Tim—where’s Tim?”

Martin set the cup of tea he’d been bringing down at the edge of Jon’s desk and frowned. “He’s in the recording room. Why do you ask?”

Jon was up before Martin finished speaking, striding down the hallway and bursting through the door.

“Tim, your new boyfriend is talking with Elias,” he blurted, before Tim could take a breath to shout at him for the interruption.

Tim pulled up short. “What?”

“Right now,” Jon panted. “He’s in Elias’ office right now.”

Tim’s mouth flattened. “Right.” Without another word he strode out of the room, pushing between Jon and Martin and practically flying up the stairs. 

“Sasha, I really think you should get out here,” Martin called, voice pitching up with nerves. Jon just followed Tim wordlessly.

They intercepted Mike just as he was coming down from Elias’ office, accompanied by a short, muscular person with close-cropped black hair. 

“Mike, my man!” Tim exclaimed in a painfully jovial tone. “What are you doing here, mate?”

“Hello, Tim,” Mike replied with an easy smile. Martin and Sasha ran up behind them, breathless, as Mike went on with as little concern as if they were discussing the weather, “I was just having a quick chat with Elias.”

“Yeah, Jon mentioned that,” Tim fired back from behind gritted teeth. _“Why?”_

Mike sighed. “He tried to offer me a job. I refused it.” The person beside him barked out a laugh. “Ah!” Mike added, “this is my friend, Jude Perry. She was just offered a similar opportunity, and she’s still thinking it over.” Jude gave them a smirk and a wave, but stayed quiet.

Tim took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Would this job, by any chance, be that of Head Archivist?”

Mike’s eyes flicked over to Jon. “No, it was something different,” he answered calmly, turning back to Tim. “I thought that position had already been filled.”

“Yeah,” Tim snorted quietly. “Right.” 

Mike rocked back on his heels, clapping his hands together. “So, we still on for next week?”

“I—sure,” Tim said tiredly. “Looking forward to it.”

“Great! Can Jude come too?”

Tim threw his hands up. “Why not? It looks like we’ll be needing to change the name from, like, ‘Gay Games Night’ to ‘People Elias Is Manipulating For Unknown Reasons Support Group,’ so what’s one more name to the list?”

Jude snorted, then covered it up with a cough, looking a bit surprised. “If it helps,” she offered, the same drawl Jon had heard behind Elias’ door, “I’m also gay.”

“Great, it can be both, then,” Tim muttered.

“See you two on Thursday!” Sasha waved cheerily, herding the archive staff back downstairs. When they got there she let the smile fall off her face and groaned. “What on earth, guys?”

Tim slumped over to his desk and collapsed bonelessly into his chair. “Our lives are so _weird.”_

“Why is Elias trying to hire your boyfriend? Is he stalking you, too?” 

“Wait, who else is Elias stalking?” Jon demanded. Martin coughed. Jon wheeled on him immediately. “He isn’t stalking _you,_ is he?” 

“No, not—I actually think Sasha meant you,” Martin stammered. 

“Oh,” Jon relaxed, murderous impulses dissipating. “Right, that’s fair.”

“I doubt it,” Tim was saying, face thoughtful. “It’s probably just a coincidence, though I did meet Mike when me and Jon were out for drinks, so… Do any of you know this Jude lady?”

Martin shook his head, and Jon shrugged. “Yeah, she’s an outlier,” hummed Sasha. 

“Still—is there anything we can really _do_ about any of this?” Martin asked. 

They all looked at each other hopefully.

Sasha sighed. “Doesn’t seem like it. Nothing we’re not already doing.”

“So, just get back to work, then?” Jon clarified.

Martin shifted uncertainly. Sasha looked wry. “Right, Jon. Work.”

This time it was Martin waiting around for Jon to finish up. 

“You go on ahead, I’ll just finish this up and head out,” Jon told him absently when he mentioned the time, but Martin shook his head.

“It’s fine, I can wait,” he insisted, and Jon looked up, surprised. Martin had that mulish expression he got sometimes, when he’d made up his mind not to budge about something or other. 

“I—alright,” Jon stuttered, and did his best to hurry as he finished the notes he was jotting down. 

“Thanks for waiting. You really didn’t have to,” he said, once he’d stacked his papers together and gathered his things.

Martin smiled at him. “It isn’t any trouble, Jon.”

Jon looked away, hoping Martin couldn’t tell as his face heated with a blush. “This isn’t some conspiracy to protect me from Elias, is it?” he joked.

Martin didn’t answer for a moment and Jon looked up sharply. His heart fell when he saw Martin’s face. “It is, isn’t it?”

Martin avoided his eyes, starting to say something, but Jon cut him off. “I don’t need _protecting,_ Martin.”

Martin’s face hardened. “I know you don’t,” he said, painfully earnest. “I know that, Jon.”

Jon sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Then why…”

“Because just because you don’t _need_ it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve our help,” Martin said.

“I—” Jon blinked. They walked in silence for a minute. “Thank you, I suppose,” he muttered eventually.

“Don’t…” Martin sighed, pushing open the Institute’s doors. “You don’t have to thank me for caring about you, you know?”

Jon stared, and Martin gave him a tiny, lopsided smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jon said. “Right, see you tomorrow, Martin.”

Jon didn’t remember anything about the trip home. He was thinking about that tiny smile, and the words _you don’t have to thank me,_ and _caring about you._

Games night the next week was…odd, to say the least. Martin had brought a friend this time, a tall man who looked younger than the deep worry lines etched into his face would imply. “This is Oliver,” Martin introduced. “We met at the local farmer’s market last weekend, and I thought…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but Jon thought he understood anyway. It was very like Martin, to see a stranger and decide they needed a friend. 

Basira had brought her girlfriend, Daisy, who was a police officer as well, with curly blonde hair and a viciousness to her movements that put Jon on edge. She never seemed to smile, but Basira draped herself all over her throughout the evening, and Daisy seemed to soften slightly when the other woman rearranged her cards from her lap or laughed against her shoulder. They were sweet together, in a terrifying sort of way.

They started off playing Uno, but it didn’t last long, because Jude kept winning and the deck seemed to get smaller every round. When they finally gave up on cards and left off sitting at the table, Jude left a suspiciously large pile of ashes behind.

“She just runs warm,” Mike told them assuredly. “It’s not an issue.”

Melanie was glaring after her. “That woman took a lighter to my Uno deck.”

It didn’t help that Jude was flirting outrageously with Georgie. Jon just hoped she and Melanie didn’t end up killing each other by the end of the evening.

They tried a round of charades next, which was fun at first, but Georgie wouldn’t stop eyeing Oliver suspiciously, and Mike and Jude definitely seemed to have some kind of issue with each other. And then there was the thing where, for Jude’s turn, she pointed directly at Jon and mimed a horrific explosion and an agonized, screaming face. 

“Oh, I know this one! It’s ‘woman condemning herself to fall for the rest of eternity’!” Mike exclaimed.

Jude scowled. The rest of them shifted uncomfortably.

“The word was ‘lipstick,’” she announced and stomped to her seat.

Oliver seemed to be having fun, at least.

“What’s your issue with him?” Jon leaned over to whisper at Georgie. 

She looked genuinely startled. “With who?”

“Oliver,” Jon prompted. “You keep glaring at him like he killed your dog or something.”

Georgie frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t like him. He seems… bad. Reminds me of someone I once met.”

Jon looked over at where Oliver was throwing himself into acting out his clue by prancing around on all fours and tossing his head with gusto. “Pony!” Martin was shouting. 

“Alright,” Jon said dubiously. “If you say so.”

Georgie huffed at him.

At the end of the evening, Jude nodded sharply. “Alright, you win, Crew,” she declared. “This was _fun._ Same time next week?”

Melanie hadn’t stopped scowling at her all evening, but Sasha was grinning. “Yeah, I like you, Perry,” she declared. “See you next week.”

Jon sighed.

Despite everything, they kept to this pattern for quite some time. Georgie remained convinced Oliver was evil, and told him so to his face at the next games night (he just sighed, looking horribly sad, and Martin glared at Georgie, clearly waiting for her to apologize. That contest of wills was truly awful to witness). Jude, Jon was fairly sure, was something not precisely human, but she seemed to like them all well enough, so he supposed they weren’t in immediate danger of becoming statement material. Mike and Tim continued dating on casual terms, both of them seeing other people at the same time, and seemed happy enough with the arrangement, even if Tim confided to them at work that he was pretty sure Mike was “maybe just a little bit evil.”

“Well, nobody’s perfect,” Sasha said matter-of-factly, and that seemed to be that.

Then Sasha came into work late.

She didn’t text or call anyone to let them know what had happened, and maybe if it’d been Tim or even Martin they wouldn’t have been so worried, but Sasha hadn’t been late once since being appointed Interim Head Archivist, and she wouldn’t pick up when Tim rang her mobile.

Something was wrong.

They all sort of sat around and worried until she finally, finally showed up, disheveled, wide-eyed and panting hard.

“Sasha!” 

She waved them off. “Give me—give me a moment.” Martin pulled a chair over and she sat down gratefully while he hurried to make some fresh tea.

“What happened?” Jon asked when she’d caught her breath.

“I—” she shut her eyes. “I hardly know where to start.” She took a deep breath and looked at them. “I met a monster yesterday.”

Jon felt like he’d been socked in the stomach. Martin and Tim looked somewhat similar. “You didn’t—” “It didn’t—” “Are you okay?” they all blurted at once.

“I’m fine.” Sasha gave a choked laugh. “I just—I’m still having a hard time wrapping my mind around it. Michael.”

“Crew?” Jon asked, world tilting a little, but Sasha shook her head with a giggle that sounded a bit more real than the first one.

“Michael… distortion? I don’t know quite what to call him. It. Him? He said his name was Michael, but that _really_ didn’t seem right.” Sasha hesitated. “I’ve seen him once or twice before—”

Tim made a distressed noise. 

“I’m sorry, I know I should’ve said something, I just…didn’t want to worry you,” Sasha ducked her head. “He showed up at the café I always buy my coffee from and told me he was there to help. Said if I wanted to know the truth I should meet him in Finsbury Park by sunset. That was yesterday.”

“And you _went?”_ Martin squawked.

Sasha shrugged helplessly. “What was I supposed to do? We—we spend all day researching horrible monsters, half our friends are questionably human and/or somewhat evil, and Elias—” she stopped and took another breath. “Just… I’ll tell you what happened, and then you can yell at me, okay?”

“Fair enough,” Tim agreed readily. “I like the part where we can yell at you, especially.”

Sasha just slumped further down in her chair with a sigh. “I—I met Michael in the park. It’s a big place, but he found me pretty fast. I don’t think things like it can get lost. Or maybe he’s always lost—it doesn’t make much difference in the end, does it? 

“He didn’t say anything for a minute, just sort of stood and smiled. Eventually I asked if there was a reason he’d brought me there. ‘A reason, yes… As much as such a thing can exist,’ he said, in a creaky, wavering sort of voice. It was a weird voice, really, he sounded like… like he was talking very quietly, but someone had turned the volume all the way up. It hurt to listen to. ‘I want to tell you not to trust your Archivist,’ he said. I told him I didn’t know what he meant, and he said since I was an assistant at the Magnus Institute I should be careful of ‘my Gertrude.’ ‘Gertrude’s dead,’ I said, and he laughed. ‘Oh, I know, isn’t it marvellous?’ he said. ‘But I mean her replacement. The Archivist.’ I said I was Gertrude’s replacement, which looking back was probably stupid of me, but he just sort of stared at me and said, ‘No… no, you’re not that. It’s the other one. Small, dark, never stops looking at you—’ er, he said some other stuff that wasn’t super complimentary, but eventually I worked out he meant—he was talking about Jon.

“I told him Jon wasn’t the Archivist, and I _know_ I shouldn’t have given all this information to some monster, but I was just so desperate to convince him at the time that I wasn’t thinking. I told it everything, about how Elias offered you the job and you turned him down, and how _weird_ it all was, and he squinted off into the distance. ‘I see,’ he said eventually, with another one of those horrible laughs, ‘yes. He is marked but not yet claimed. It’s only a matter of time, though, you must know that. The Eye has Chosen him, and the Eye will get what it desires.’

“I asked him if he meant Elias. ‘If that is what it is calling itself now,’ Michael said. ‘It used to be James Wright, and before that Richard Mendelson. Names hardly matter, do they? There is no such thing as a real name, after all.’ He went on like that for a while, nothing that quite made sense, you know? But eventually I worked out that he was trying to warn me not to trust Jon. ‘The Archivist will trick you,’ he said, ‘into believing it is not what it is, and is what it is not. I sometimes think the Archivist is more of the Spiral than I am,’ and then he laughed and laughed and laughed, and everything went hazy, and the next thing I knew it was today.”

For a moment there was total silence in the Archives.

Then, “Okay, can we yell at you now?” Tim asked, and Jon was backing away and turning blindly to stride down the narrow hallway, and before he knew where he was going he was in the recording room. 

_Might as well get some work done,_ he thought, a bit deliriously, and was picking up a statement when Martin’s hand touched his wrist. 

“Jon,” his voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere far away, “are you… Are you okay?”

Jon blinked up at him, and oh, alright, he was on the floor now. He started laughing. He wasn’t sure why, it just seemed like the thing to do.

“Oh, Jon,” and then warm arms enveloped him, and he stopped laughing abruptly. Martin was… hugging? Him? 

He couldn’t remember the last time someone other than Georgie or the Admiral had given him more than a handshake. 

Abruptly he was sobbing. He cursed himself as he did so, because it was stupid, he was _stupid,_ he had nothing to cry about, not compared to Sasha. Only he was apparently _chosen_ by some evil monster, and destined to become something evil, and he couldn’t pretend any of this wasn’t real anymore, and Martin was hugging him, and it was all just too _much._

“Shh,” Martin was crooning gently in his ear. “It’s alright. It’s fine, Jon, it’s okay. You don’t have to apologize, it’s alright,” and that was when Jon realized he was mumbling “m’sorry, I’m sorry, sorry,” over and over in between his sobs, and Martin said to stop so he tried but it all just made him feel worse. 

“I don’t—” he started, and hiccupped; cursed himself and tried again. “I don’t—want—to be a monster. Martin, please, I don’t _want_ to—”

“I know,” Martin told him. “Jon, listen, can you look at me?” Martin pulled away a bit, but only so he could look Jon in the eyes. He hadn’t pulled back very much, and there were only a few inches of space between their faces.

God, Martin was beautiful.

“Jon,” Martin told him, very quiet but very fierce, “I promise you we won’t let that happen. Whatever Elias’ plans are, I don’t care—we’re here for you, remember? We care about you. _I_ care about you. We won’t let him.”

It was in that moment that Jon realized, very inconveniently, that he was in love with Martin Blackwood.

“Okay,” Jon breathed.

Martin’s face was still very close.

Then Tim and Sasha crashed through the door. Jon reeled back from Martin in shock, and Tim cursed when he got a look at Jon’s face. “I’m sorry,” Tim burst out. “I was so mad at Sasha, I didn’t even think—”

Too late, Jon wiped the sleeve of his sweater across his cheeks. It was probably a futile attempt, anyway; he was sure he only wound up looking more of a mess.

“Are you okay, Jon?” Sasha asked gently.

“I’m fine,” he replied, far too stiffly. He might have been able to pull off the brusque tone a bit better if he wasn’t still tearstained and sitting on the floor.

“I’m _fine,”_ he repeated, pulling himself to his feet and studiously avoiding looking at Martin. “Or I will be, at any rate. I should be asking you that, anyway. You’re the one who met a monster. Are you alright?”

Sasha shrugged, trying for a smile. “I will be, at any rate,” she repeated back to him. “In the meantime, I rather think we all deserve the day off.”

Not only did the others coerce Jon into leaving the Archives, they dragged him out for _ice cream._

It would have been easier to protest if Martin hadn’t been the one to suggest it. Or if he hadn’t looked so astonishingly hopeful.

He really did have a brilliant smile.

“D’you think we should ask Jude and them about it?” Tim suggested. “Her and Mike seem like they might know a thing or two about spooky stuff. Your cop friends, too, maybe.” He directed the last bit at Sasha.

Martin looked thoughtful, but Sasha frowned. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I feel like we have something pretty stable going on with games night and everything, but I don’t want to push them too far, you know? Especially if they’re… anything like Michael. It could be dangerous.”

Jon shuddered. “I agree,” he put in. “The last thing we need is to add more rogue elements to the equation.”

“Fair enough,” Tim conceded. They all let it go at that.

“I’m scared, Georgie,” Jon admitted that evening, after he’d told her the whole story. “I don’t know what it means, that horrible creatures are approaching my coworkers and warning them to—to fear me. But somehow I don’t think it’s a good thing.” He tried for a laugh, which sounded more like he was being strangled. 

Georgie was studying him. He waited, but she didn’t say anything, until finally he blurted, “I wouldn’t blame you, you know, if you don’t believe me. I know it’s—it sounds ridiculous, it _is_ ridiculous, honestly—”

Georgie blinked and shook her head. “No, I believe you, Jon,” she said. “I… well, I’ve encountered the supernatural before. Something real, like this ‘Michael.’ It, well. It was pretty awful, actually. It did something to me, though, I don’t know exactly what, but since that moment I haven’t been able to feel fear.” Jon stared at her, and she smiled wryly. “I know these things exist, is what I’m saying. I know you’re telling the truth. And I know that they can… change you. But even if they do, that doesn’t mean you stop being _you,_ d’you hear me?” She gripped his hand firmly. “Whatever happens, Jonathan Sims, you won’t stop being _you._ The way I didn’t stop being me. Alright?”

Jon stared at their hands, linked over the couch cushions. “Alright,” he whispered, voice cracking.

Georgie took a breath. “Good.” She nodded sharply. “Good. That’s settled, then.”

And somehow, it felt like it was.

The next evening was games night. They didn’t really have a good reason to cancel, so they all met up as usual, this time at Jon and Georgie’s flat. They’d taken to rotating host duties, all except Jude, who said her house was “unfit for human habitation.” She’d said it like a joke, but there was a glint in her eyes that made Jon think it might not have been one.

The atmosphere was a bit tenser than usual, at first, which seemed to confuse the others, but eventually things eased up. It helped that Basira started cracking entirely deadpan jokes into the awkward silences. They were chiefly bad puns, which made Martin snort and set Sasha giggling madly; that in turn got Tim laughing, which made Mike grin, and pretty soon the room felt lighter. Almost normal.

Then a knock came at the entry.

“Were we expecting anyone else?” Georgie asked, to general confusion. “Huh.” She went to the door and pulled it open.

“Is there a Jonathan Sims here?” a low, grinding voice greeted her. Without waiting for an answer, a meaty limb shoved her to one side, and the thing at the door pushed its way in.

It was _definitely_ not human.

It was huge, and hulking, and vaguely human- _shaped,_ but the outline of more bones than a human body could hold jutted out from its chest cavity, and it had at least one extra arm curled around its torso. Too many fingers, too long, too sharp, sprouted from its hands, and it had too many teeth, too many ears, too many eyes, nothing in the right places—

“Jared!” Jude said pleasantly. She stood. “How _lovely_ to see you! Are you here to join us?”

“Hm,” ‘Jared,’ apparently, said. Its gaze (all of its eyes, mismatched, too large and too small and all somehow moving in unison) jumped from Jude, to Mike, to Daisy, to Oliver. “Nope.”

And then it turned and left.

Jude sat back down, a satisfied look on her face.

“Excuse me,” Jon managed, and ran for the toilet.

He heard Martin yelling back in the living room, but he couldn’t make himself care. He was busy retching, and trying not to think about something with too many bones come calling for him by name.

The front door slammed, and a moment later someone tapped gently outside the bathroom. “Jon?” Georgie called. “Are you okay?”

Jon didn’t answer. 

“The others have left,” Georgie added after a minute. “I mean, Tim and Sasha and Martin are still here, and Melanie, but—you know. The others. Martin yelled at them and Mike said it was better that they head out.”

“No answers from them, then,” Jon said flatly. 

“No.”

They were quiet for a minute. Jon reached up and flushed the toilet before slumping against the wall. 

“Is there anything we can do?” Georgie asked.

“I really just want to be left alone,” Jon bit out.

“Fair enough.” 

Her footsteps moved away, and a moment later the murmur of conversation carried from the living room. Eventually it tapered off, the front door opening and closing again, and Jon finally slunk out to get something to drink.

Georgie didn’t say anything when she saw him. She just waited for him to flop down on the couch, glass in hand, and then dropped the Admiral in his lap.

Jon felt suddenly very wobbly. “Thank you,” he croaked. 

“Get some sleep, Jon,” she advised softly. 

He gulped down his drink, stroking the Admiral, and obeyed.

Games night went on something of a hiatus, after that. Tim said he hadn’t been able to get ahold of Mike at all. 

“I’d say I couldn’t believe he was ghosting me, but what are the odds he’s an actual, literal ghost?” Tim huffed. 

“Non-zero,” Martin offered, and Tim pointed at him.

“Exactly. That’s the problem, right there.”

Martin was a bit nonplussed to find that he couldn’t reach Oliver, either, even just to meet for coffee, but he said he supposed he understood. A giant flesh monster interrupting your night would probably be a bit off-putting for any normal person.

Surprisingly, though, Daisy and Basira came by the Archives, separately and then together, to offer whatever they could on the whole matter. Apparently they were both part of an unofficial ‘supernatural’ division of the police force, and had seen their share of what Tim called “spooky stuff,” but ultimately they couldn’t offer much more than a few statements.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this, Jon,” Basira told him. She seemed quite determined to figure out _why_ there were monsters stalking Jon, as opposed to Daisy, who was more invested in hunting down and killing said monsters. It was touching, truly.

The problem was, Jon was pretty sure he knew why there were monsters stalking him. He just didn’t know what to do about it.

“I mean, we could just kill him,” Tim pointed out. 

Jon spluttered. “Tim! You can’t just _kill_ people you don’t like! That’s not how this works!”

Tim shrugged. “I mean, he’s trying to kill you. Turnabout’s fair play.”

Jon looked at Martin beseechingly. Martin frowned. “I’m kind of with Tim on this one, actually.”

“Really?” Sasha and Tim said at the same time, both with the same tone of shocked delight. 

“Yeah.” Martin shrugged. “Look, Jon, he sent a horrible monster to your house, we’re guessing, for whatever awful reasons he has. I’d say it’s not a bad idea to get rid of him before he has the chance to actually succeed.”

“All the same, I wouldn’t, if I were you.” Elias’ voice sounded from the stairwell. They all jumped, Sasha rising quickly to her feet and Martin shuffling unobtrusively to stand a little in front of where Jon was sitting. Jon stood up, too, gently shifting Martin so they stood side by side.

Elias stepped forward, adjusting his tie carelessly. “I mean, I fully understand the impulse, but there’s one thing you should understand before you make any hasty decisions. You all work for me. That is, for the Eye; same difference, really. It’s in your contracts, and I’m afraid it’s quite binding. You can’t quit or you’ll wither and die, quite painfully, I’m told; and if _I_ die? Well. So do you.” 

“You’re lying,” Tim accused, louder than the others’ protests. 

“Am I?” Elias raised a brow. “Jonathan.” Jon flinched back, but he didn’t look away quickly enough to escape that gaze before it met his. “You can know, if you like.” 

Something shifted. Elias’ eyes gleamed, a vivid, awful green. Jon couldn’t look away. “The Assistants are Bound to the Eye,” he repeated. “The death of the Eye would be the death of all who are Bound to it. Jonathan, _am I telling the truth?”_

“Yes,” Jon said immediately, the word torn from his throat.

“Good,” Elias said, and everything was back to normal. He seemed pleased. “That will be all, then.” He turned and walked back up the stairs.

“…Fuck,” Sasha said. Jon rather thought he agreed.

Martin didn’t show up for work later that week.

 _Stomach bug,_ he texted Sasha. _Sorry can’t come in._

Halfway through that afternoon Jon spotted and stomped on a tiny silver worm, and a horrible thought struck him. 

_Stupid,_ he told himself firmly even as he dialed Martin’s mobile. _It’s just a coincidence, just a bit of flu, nothing’s gone after Martin, this is stupid._

The phone rang out.

He tried again three more times before he gave up and grabbed his coat. 

“Wait, where are you going?” Tim asked as he started for the door.

“I’m just…” Jon huffed. “I’m just going to check on Martin. He’s not answering his phone and I—well, I want to make sure he’s okay.”

Thankfully, Tim didn’t laugh. He just nodded thoughtfully and said, “I’ll come too.”

It was not, in fact, a bit of flu.

Jon was frozen in horror at the top of the stairwell, staring down the hallway that led to Martin’s flat, at the thing that had once been Jane Prentiss. He’d studied what information they had about her, of course, she was flagged a top priority threat up in the libraries, but this… Nothing had come close to capturing what she—what _it_ had become.

Its head turned towards them. If any of Prentiss’ flesh was left, it couldn’t be seen through the mass of roiling maggots, but there still seemed to be two round orbs set apart from the rest, in the space that had once been her face. Eyes? Or just clumps of worms, sitting in the empty sockets of a seething skull? It didn’t matter—they were looking at Jon where he stood.

“Martin!” Jon screamed, jolting out of his stupor. “Stay—stay put! We’re coming for you!” _Please, God, don’t let us be too late._

Then a tidal wave of worms came sweeping towards them, and Tim slammed the door to the stairwell. They fled, as fast as they could, away from the thing that was not chasing them and the hundreds of thousands of worms that were. The creature that had been Jane Prentiss stood still in the hallway, laughing, calling after them in its ruined voice.

“Archivist? Can you hear them sing?”

When they were a safe enough distance away, Jon ordered Tim to call Mike. “I don’t care if he doesn’t pick up, keep calling,” he said shortly.

Tim opened his mouth to protest, but Jon was already dialing the number Jude had given him. 

She picked up on the fourth ring. “Now, what do you want, Jonathan?” 

“Please,” Jon blurted. “I’m sorry, whatever happened, whatever was said I apologize. I don’t care what you are. I don’t care if you never tell me a thing about what’s going on. But please, Jude, I need your help. Now. Right now.”

“…And what if I say I don’t want to help you?”

“I,” Jon caught the sob climbing up his throat. “Please don’t say no.”

“Wow,” Jude sounded surprised. “You really do need me. What happened?”

“It’s Martin,” Jon faltered. “I—it’s Jane Prentiss. She’s got him trapped in his flat—we couldn’t get close, I don’t know if… I don’t—”

“Stop,” Jude said. “I’m on my way.” 

Her tone was deadly.

Tim ended up leaving Mike a message. Jon wasn’t paying attention, busy leading them back to Martin’s apartment building and then scanning the traffic anxiously for Jude’s motorcycle. 

It took far too long for her to pull up. 

When she finally did, she barely paused to take off her helmet before demanding, “Floor number.”

“Five,” Jon told her, equally clipped.

She didn’t bother waiting for someone to open the building’s door for them the way Jon and Tim had. She just pressed a hand to the lock and waited until it sizzled under her skin, red-hot and dripping metal. Then she pushed it open and made for the stairs.

“That settles that question,” Tim muttered. Jon couldn’t care less.

Jude vaulted up the stairwell, taking each flight in one or two steps and reaching Martin’s floor in no time. Jon followed close behind her, a bit more cautiously, and stepped back when she flung open the door to the fifth-floor hallway.

Jude stepped forward, heedless of the worms that surged toward them. Whenever they touched her, trying to burrow into her skin the way they had with Jane—the way they _hadn’t_ with Martin, _couldn’t have_ —they burst into flame. 

_“Jane Prentiss,”_ Jude intoned, her voice as clear as burning, the scathing warmth that had always lingered behind it now violently absent. “You have made me… _very_ angry.”

She stepped forward, and now the worms were actively fleeing from her touch, but they caught fire anyway. Jon watched in numb fascination as not a single one survived in the hallway past where Jude’s foot fell. The walls themselves were crawling with flame.

The thing that had been Prentiss opened its awful mockery of a mouth, but Jude closed the distance between them with four quick strides and stretched out a hand before it could speak. “I don’t think so,” Jude said, and plunged her hand into its chest.

The sound of its death was horrible. A hundred thousand writhing, mouthless _things_ shrieked their agony with a power that seemed to burrow through Jon’s ears into his skull, and for a moment he thought he would start screaming too. But in a heartbeat, the crackle of flames grew loud enough to drown them out; the screaming quieted, and the awful red dance of flaming decay grew brighter and died away.

“Martin,” Jon breathed, as soon as he could breathe again. “Martin!” 

He rushed forward, brushing past Jude and barely noticing the sting as his shoulder broke out in blisters. He pounded on Martin’s door. “Martin, can you hear me? It’s me, it’s Jon—Jane’s dead, it’s dead, you’re safe now—Martin, please, open the door!”

“Jon,” Martin’s voice was wobbly but it was _there,_ he was still there. “Hang—hang on, I’ve got some stuff in the way. I’m coming out. I’m—I’m alright, I think.”

“Oh, thank God.” Jon crumpled a bit in relief, propping himself up against the doorframe. The sound of furniture scraping came from the other side, until finally the door flew open and Martin stood, face flushed and kicking a ragged towel away from the door with one foot.

Jon surged forward, scanning him anxiously. “You’re okay?” he demanded. “You’re sure? Not—no itches, or marks, you’re not hurt at all—”

“Pretty sure,” Martin said, and Jude added from behind,

“Prentiss is dead, which means so are all her worms. Even if she did get him, Martin’s in the clear by now.”

“Good,” Jon swallowed, trying to collect himself. “Right, well then.” 

…He was tired of trying to pretend.

Before he could think it through, Jon stepped forward and buried himself in Martin’s chest, wrapping his arms around him like an octopus. He rather doubted he was good at this ‘hugging’ business, but Martin would just have to make do for now, until he could get a proper one.

“Oh,” Martin said softly. Jon tensed, ready to step back with an apology on his tongue, but Martin brought his arms up and _oh,_ this was very good.

Jon liked hugs.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he instructed, voice slightly muffled by Martin’s sweater. “You may not get eaten by worms. I _forbid_ it, Martin.”

Martin laughed, a quiet rumble in Jon’s ear. “You know, you really aren’t my boss,” he said teasingly.

“Perhaps I’ll have to accept Elias’ offer after all, then,” Jon threatened.

“Please don’t.”

“If you promise not to get eaten by worms, I won’t.”

Martin huffed. “You drive a hard bargain. I’ll do my best.”

Presently Jon disentangled himself, and Tim cleared his throat. 

“Glad to see you’re alright,” he said, and Martin gave him a lopsided smile. “Erm, and I guess, thank you, Jude? For… whatever that was.”

“Don’t mention it,” Jude shrugged. “It was my pleasure.”

Then the stairwell door burst open again. Jon flung himself across Martin, rather melodramatically, but it was just Mike, breathing hard and looking a bit wild.

“Did…” he panted. “Did you kill her?”

Jude rolled her eyes. “Yep. Dead as… well, as desolation. You’re too late. Sorry.”

“Were you gonna set them on fire for us, too, then?” Tim asked. He was starting to sound a little manic, Jon realized.

“Er,” Mike glanced at Jude. She just made a sweeping motion, letting him take the lead. “Erm. No? Not… exactly.” He shifted, looking for once just the least bit uneasy. “Look, we should do this somewhere else.”

“Or,” Martin offered, “you could all come inside and I’ll make us a pot of tea.”

They took their seats around Martin’s tiny dining table, Mike and Jude having an abortive argument in the background as Martin poured the tea and brought over the cups. “Right,” Martin said firmly, silencing them as he deposited their mugs and dropped into a chair of his own. “Explanations.”

“Jude set that thing on fire with her skin,” Tim provided. 

Martin blinked. “Well, that sort of raises more questions than it answers, but thanks, Tim.” He looked at Jude. “D’you want to explain how you… erm, did that?”

Jude shrugged. “Not particularly.” Martin opened his mouth, a stubborn look crossing his face, but she cut him off by sighing loudly as she examined her fingernails. “Jon said I wouldn’t have to.”

“Wh—Jon?” Martin looked at him, a little accusingly.

Jon hunched under his gaze, but couldn’t bring himself to regret anything he’d told Jude. “I was more concerned with ensuring you were still alive than deciphering any secrets they may be keeping, Martin.”

Martin kept staring at him, but his gaze softened to something more thoughtful.

“Right,” Tim announced. “Well, I for one still want some answers, and frankly I think we’re entitled to a few.”

Jude pointedly ignored him, but Mike sighed. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I think so, too.”

“Oh! Good!” Martin turned to face him more fully. “Right, so are you also… like Jude?”

“Or Prentiss?” Tim added harshly.

Mike bowed his head a bit. “I suppose, yes. To both.”

Jon sucked in a breath. Whatever he’d thought, he hadn’t expected—like _Prentiss?_

“We—Jude, and I, and Prentiss, Jared—Oliver and Daisy, too, for that matter—we’re all… we’re all people that have been changed, by something.” Mike frowned, gazing into space as he felt for the right words. 

Jon was stuck trying to process “Oliver and Daisy.” He guessed Georgie had been right about Oliver’s bad vibes, after all. _Daisy,_ though?

“It’s not all the same… something,” Mike went on, “and not all in the same way, or to the same extent, though there comes a point where you—you stop being human. Point of no return, you know. Jude’s,” he stopped as she shot him a murderous look, “well, she can tell you her own story, if she chooses. Mine came when I jumped off a building.”

“So you are actually a ghost,” Tim stated flatly. 

Mike laughed. A real laugh, which seemed to startle him more than anyone else. “No. Not a ghost. I’m… some call us Avatars. It works as well as any other word, I suppose. Ambassadors, representatives of things that exist beyond the scope of this reality. Things so much more _real_ that we’re just pale simulations in comparison. Or so much less real, and more powerful, that reality becomes completely irrelevant. But that’s more the Distortion’s purview, I think; and I’ve sacrificed too much already to escape that particular grasp, so I’ll let you draw your own conclusions about Them.” The capitalization was unmistakeable.

“Who are… They?” Jon asked quietly.

Mike shook his head. “Not who. _They_ can’t be put into words, not properly, but They aren’t _whos_. The closest thing They ever get to being a who is in us, things like me and Jude and Prentiss; and the closer you get to Them the more of your who-ness slips away.” He smiled, but there was nothing happy in the expression. “I think the most I’ve felt like a self in… a very long while, is when I was with you, Tim.

“But to answer your question, They are—well, some call them manifestations, or entities, or just gods. They are the Fears. I, myself, serve the Vast. You do, too, you know, for a very brief while, whenever you indulge your fear of falling. Of immensity. Open space, the endless void that consumes all things.”

“Stay on track, Crew,” Jude interrupted. “No one wants to hear you recite your weird love poetry.”

Mike shot her an annoyed look. “You could help, you know.” She just laughed.

“Jude,” Mike added in retaliation, “serves the Desolation. She destroys things, objects, places, people, it doesn’t matter really. She just relishes the annihilation of it all. The _pain_ of loss. Especially of things that are loved—” Here he had to break off, gritting his teeth, because Jude had carelessly placed her bare hand on his arm and was gripping tightly.

“That’s enough,” she hissed.

“Jude?” 

Martin’s voice was small.

“Oh, it’s not like he’s any better!” Jude whirled. “Or what do you think he means by _service?_ Do you have any idea how many people he’s taken and trapped in his void of endless falling? Screaming and begging for relief, for _breath,_ and being denied even death as an escape. There are millions there, being digested for eternity by his precious god. At least _my_ god grants an ending. In the agony of loss comes the freedom to remake yourself, to finally be who you _are_ outside of all your stupid, empty attachments. My god is _beautiful.”_

Martin’s eyes were shining with tears.

“Get out.” Tim’s voice didn’t shake. It was low, and clear, and furious. “Both of you. Get the hell out of Martin’s flat.”

Jude shot upright, hands slamming against the table and leaving acrid black marks as she leaned forward. Martin grabbed instinctively at Jon’s arm.

“Aah!” Jon flinched away from the searing pain when Martin’s hand hit his shoulder, in the same place he’d brushed against Jude not half an hour ago. At the same moment, Jude reeled backward, gasping. The look on her face… It reminded Jon of someone who’d caught the scent of fresh-baked bread when they were fasting. Desperate, horrified and _hungry._

“I have to go,” she said abruptly, as if Tim hadn’t just ordered her to do exactly that. She spun on her heel and fairly flew out the door.

“I’m sorry about that,” Mike said, gesturing to Jon’s arm. “She usually has quite good control of herself. And…” he let his eyes drift shut. “Well. I’m sorry for everything else.”

He stood and left, hesitating at the door as if he might turn back. Jon glanced at Tim, who was watching him go with his lips pressed so tightly together they looked pale. Mike’s shoulders rose and fell, a near-imperceptible sigh, and then he, too, was gone.

In the deafening silence that blanketed Martin’s flat afterwards, Jon rolled up his shirtsleeve to get a look at his arm. Martin sucked in a breath when he saw it, though Jon thought it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. The skin was darkened and mottling with blisters, certainly, but it didn’t look like it was anything more than a bad first-degree burn. 

“I brushed up against her when I was trying to reach your door,” he explained. Tim, who’d put his head in his hands, looked up to see what he was talking about and swore.

“Jude did that?” he demanded. 

“I don’t think it was on purpose,” Jon hurried to say. “And it’s really not as bad as it looks. It’s fine.”

“No, Jon!” Tim exploded. “No, it is not _fine!_ Literally everything about this is so incredibly screwed up, you can’t just—” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “I need some air.” Without waiting for a response, he stood and strode out.

Jon was halfway out of his seat without even thinking about it, but Martin held out a hand. “Let him go,” he advised. “Tim needs time to process stuff… well, not stuff like this, because I don’t really think we have a lot of comparable life experiences, but big stuff. He does better if he can deal with it alone, to start, at least.”

Jon hesitated. “Is it… do you think it’s safe, though?”

Martin sighed. “No less safe than it’s ever been for us, I don’t think. At least Jane Prentiss isn’t out there anymore.”

“Fair point.” Jon settled back, awkwardly sipping at the tea that had gone cold. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He knew he was perseverating, but he couldn’t help asking again.

“Yes, Jon.” Martin smiled at him fondly. “I’m fine, physically at least. I promise.”

“I didn’t mean just physically.”

It was Martin’s turn to reach for his cold cup of tea, opting to stare into its depths rather than look at Jon. “I’m… I’ve been worse, I suppose. It was—well, it was terrifying, of course, and I didn’t really know what was going on or if anyone would come looking for me, and I’d lost my phone so I couldn’t call for help. For all I knew I could be trapped in here for a week!” He laughed self-consciously. “I wouldn’t blame anyone if you thought I was just skipping a day, or two, I know I’m not the best at my job, so. But I’m glad—glad you came.” 

Martin glanced up and back down again just as fast, gripping his mug tightly. “She just… _It_ just kept knocking. And I was terrified that it would find some tiny crack, and maybe if you hadn’t come it would have, and I don’t know what I would have done. Well, no, I did have my—my corkscrew ready, because I thought it might work better than just a knife if any of them, you know. If I had to take out a worm.”

“Martin,” Jon whispered. He didn’t even know where to start.

“And sometimes it would stop knocking and I thought maybe, maybe it had left, but I didn’t dare check, and I still don’t know if it was leaving and coming back or just—just sitting there, outside my flat, waiting for me to let it in.” Martin took a fast, sobbing breath. “And I didn’t know whether to hope that someone would come looking or not, because if you didn’t _know,_ and you walked up here unprepared for her and she got you—”

“She didn’t,” Jon cut in. “I know. I know, and I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner, but—but you don’t have to be afraid anymore. She didn’t get anyone. Not me and not you and not Tim. We’re safe.” He reached out tentatively, and Martin practically fell into him for another hug. “We’re all safe now. It’s alright.”

For a minute Martin sniffled into his shirt as they clung together. “I’m sorry you got hurt, though,” Martin mumbled presently, nodding at Jon’s shoulder.

“I’m not,” Jon said fiercely. 

Martin pulled away with a disgruntled glare, but Jon was adamant. “I mean it, Martin. I don’t care. I honestly don’t care what Jude is, what else she’s done, what she might do to me for it. Whatever it is, these ‘fear gods’ or ‘Desolation’ or—or whatever. It let her save you. That’s enough.”

“What about Mike? And—and Daisy, and _Oliver,_ apparently?”

Jon shrugged. “Jude’s proven herself, to me. I don’t know about the others, but I think Mike, at least, is something Tim will have to figure out himself.”

Martin was still frowning. “I still don’t… I don’t like that, Jon. I don’t like that you value yourself so little that you’d just throw yourself on the pyre—or, well. You know what I mean—just to save someone else. I might very well have been fine anyway.”

“No, you don’t—” Jon ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re not just ‘someone else,’ Martin. It’s not a question of how much I value _myself._ I—” he stuttered to a halt. This was probably not the best time for a confession.

Then again, nothing in Jon’s life had been convenient yet. “I care about _you._ Very—very much. I wouldn’t ‘throw myself on the pyre’ for anyone, Martin. Just… just you.”

“Oh,” Martin said, barely audible.

“I’m sorry,” Jon added quickly. “I know this is hardly appropriate—”

“Jon,” Martin interrupted. “Would it be alright if I kissed you?”

Jon pulled up short. Oh. _Oh._

“Yes,” Jon breathed. “Yes, I should rather like that.”

Martin did.

Eventually they had to return to the Archives, which they were abruptly reminded of when Tim walked back in and shouted, “Finally!”

(Jon was not amused.)

When they arrived, Sasha met them at the door. 

“Are you alright?” was the first thing she asked. “Tim texted me, almost an hour ago, I just saw it—I can’t _believe_ you, Tim, really? ‘Martin being held captive by spooky monster, don’t worry, taking care of it’? I was on my way to come after you, that’s the last time I leave my phone on silent—” 

“We’re fine, Sash,” Martin broke in. “Sorry for worrying you.”

Sasha stopped and really looked at them. Jon was suddenly conscious of the way he was holding his right arm gingerly against his side, the shirtsleeve still unbuttoned at the cuff; the blotchiness of Martin’s cheeks, his eyes still swollen and blootshot from tears, and the devastated, dead expression on Tim’s face.

“Let’s sit down,” Sasha decided.

Jon tried to hide behind his desk when they got down to the Archives, but to no avail—Sasha insisted they pull up some chairs in her office and shut the door behind them. “I know it probably doesn’t actually do anything, but I like the idea that we can have some privacy,” she explained.

“Right,” she continued, once they were settled. “Tell me what happened.”

Martin took the lead, explaining how he lost his phone when Prentiss had chased him home yesterday evening (“you were trapped in there all night?” Jon demanded, aghast. Martin insisted it wasn’t important), walled himself up as best he could and waited for someone to notice he was gone. Jon took up the story when he faltered—“I don’t really know when Jude got there,” Martin said, so Jon explained his side a bit further—but he trailed off after Prentiss’ death, when he came to Mike’s explanations.

“None of them are human, Sasha,” Tim said suddenly. He’d been sitting in silence, a sullen figure in the corner, but now he leaned forward, fists clenched. “None of them. Mike’s the same kind of creature as Prentiss. They’re all just—supernatural embodiments of people’s worst nightmares. Heights and fire and—and worms. Maybe they used to be people, but they’re not anymore.”

“That’s not true,” Martin said quietly.

“No, it is!” Tim was shouting. “That’s literally what Mike said, Martin, for once in your life don’t be _dense!”_

Jon went incandescent with rage. Martin spoke before he could. “Mike said he wasn’t human anymore,” he said in the same even tone. “And he said that the closer they all get to their… ‘gods,’ the less selfhood they keep, and the less they become like a person. But he also said that when he was with us—with you, actually, specifically—he was more of a self than he could ever remember being. He’s a monster, Tim, but he’s not _just_ a monster.”

“Whatever,” Tim hissed. “It doesn’t matter, does it? He’s made his choice. He’s _evil._ He’s some monster that lives to serve his fear god.”

“I mean,” Jon interrupted. “So do we.”

Tim stared at him. “What?”

“Well, perhaps we don’t ‘live to serve’ the Eye, but we certainly serve it,” Jon pointed out. “Or what did you think it meant when Elias told us we couldn’t kill him without dying ourselves?”

“That—it’s different,” Tim spluttered. 

Sasha was resting her chin on her folded hands. “Is it really?” Tim glared at her, and she sat up with a sigh. “No, seriously, I’m asking, Tim. Because all you’ve really given me to go on is ‘evil fear gods,’ vaguely relating to ‘heights,’ ‘fire’ and ‘worms,’ and I can make some guesses about those based on the kinds of statements that come through here, but I’ve no idea how or why someone would actually _serve_ them.”

“Does it matter?” Tim snapped. He pushed back his chair and paced across the office floor. “He hurts people, alright? Like, really, badly hurts them. Worse than murder, if Jude can be trusted, which she definitely can’t, but it’s also not like Mike denied it. We don’t _hurt people.”_

Jon… wasn’t as sure about that as he’d like to be. He didn’t want to bring up the dreams, though, because what if the others hadn’t had them? What if they _had?_

Sasha rubbed her forehead. “Be that as it may, I just don’t know enough yet to condemn Mike out of hand. I know you have your relationship with him to figure out, Tim, but I can’t—I can’t help you with that right now. Right now we need to figure out who our allies are.”

“Um,” Martin volunteered. “Mike also mentioned Oliver and Daisy being… he called them ‘Avatars’?”

“What?” Sasha rocked back, shocked. “Oliver, really? And _Daisy?_ What, is Georgie an Avatar too?”

“Absolutely not,” Jon growled. He was still angry with Tim, but Martin seemed to have moved on.

“Okay.” Sasha took her glasses off, folding them carefully and placing them in the corner of her desk. “I’m going to have a little breakdown now, and then we’ll talk strategy, alright?”

Jon took a breath. “Yes, I’d say that sounds reasonable.”

“Can I join?” Martin requested hopefully. 

Sasha waved a hand. “It’s an open-access breakdown. Everyone’s welcome.”

Then, she burst into tears.

Jon tentatively tried out his newfound hugging ability on Sasha during the allotted Breakdown Time, which she seemed to appreciate. She even avoided touching his burned shoulder without needing to be told, though she completely soaked the other side of his shirt. 

Jon was rather disgusted, honestly. He liked Martin’s hugs better. Sasha was wonderful, and he would enjoy hugging her when there was less snot involved, but it just wasn’t the same.

Martin was laughing at his expression in between his own bouts of tears. Jon was sure, somehow, that he would not be living this down. Whatever ‘this’ was.

Eventually Sasha sat back, sniffed, and said, “Okay.” She went to her office door and called Tim back from wherever he’d escaped to, then returned to her desk.

“What now?” Martin asked, still a bit watery.

“Now…” Sasha sighed, glancing around the room. Tim still seemed more sullen than anything, and for his part Jon was still struggling to process everything that had happened in the last few hours. “Well. Now I suppose we go home. I certainly don’t plan to do any more work today.”

“They know where we live,” Tim protested. His voice was jarringly loud. “Are we just supposed to trust them not to come after us?”

“Yes,” Martin retorted, to Jon’s surprise. “Jude saved my life, Tim. Or have you forgotten that already? And it seemed like the only reason Mike didn’t do the same is that he arrived too late. Whatever they are, whatever they’ve done, they’ve never hurt any of us.”

Tim started to gesture at Jon. “No,” Jon cut him off. “I bumped into Jude, immediately after she’d just finished setting all of Prentiss’ worms on fire. That was an accident. You know it’s not the same thing.”

“…I still don’t like it,” Tim mumbled.

“Sleep in the Archives, then,” Sasha said crisply. “There’s a cot in one of the back rooms, you know.”

Tim snorted, but he seemed to be actually considering it. 

Well. It wasn’t Jon’s business how Tim responded to all this.

“Er,” Jon blurted as a thought occurred to him. “Martin, do you—are you okay, going back to your flat?”

Martin looked away. “Oh, ha! I, er, of course,” he said unconvincingly. “I’ll be fine.”

“Because—” Jon offered hesitantly “—you can always… I mean, you’re welcome to stay with—”

“It really is fine, Jon,” Martin said over him. He didn’t seem to have heard. “I need to face this for myself. It’s not like I can just never go home again, anyway.”

Right. “I suppose. That does make sense. If you’re sure.”

Sasha looked, for some reason, violently disappointed in the exchange. When Tim caught sight of her expression he huffed. 

“Oh, no, we’re way past that,” Tim told her. “I walked in on them snogging, like, ten minutes after everything went down. The place still smelled like burned worms. It was super romantic.”

 _“What?”_ Sasha gasped.

“Alright, I’m heading home now,” Jon announced loudly. 

“Yep! Same here!” Martin was blushing a vivid scarlet.

(He really was adorable.)

“No, no, no, you aren’t leaving now,” Sasha ordered. Jon ignored her as he frantically snatched up his coat and bag, not bothering to pack up anything else. “Jonathan Sims, you get back here! Martin! Don’t you dare! I have _questions!”_

Jon took the stairs two at a time, glancing back to see Martin close on his tail. Sasha’s dismayed wail trailed behind them.

Martin was giggling rather breathlessly. “Success!” he cheered, cheeks still flushed.

“Yes, we’ve escaped the dread Interim Archivist and her terrible questions,” Jon agreed.

“Truly a remarkably feat,” Martin joked.

Jon shrugged as he pushed open the Institute’s front doors. “Truly. But then, Martin Blackwood is a force to be reckoned with.”

Martin rolled his eyes.

“I—I meant it, you know,” Jon added suddenly. “If you don’t want to go back to your flat. You’re welcome to stay at mine. Not like, not in a— _that_ way, I mean, you already know I don’t—just. The couch is open.”

Martin looked genuinely surprised. He really hadn’t heard Jon earlier, then; lost in his own thoughts, he supposed. “I—wow, Jon, I… thank you. That sounds—really, really nice. I can’t tell you how tempted I am, honestly,” he laughed a little. “But… but I want to face my own place. It was one bad night. A really, really bad night, but still. I don’t want to put off going back, that’ll just make everything worse in the long run.”

“Fair enough,” Jon conceded. “You’ll—you’ll let me know if you need anything, or change your mind, or… or just want to talk? Wait, do you even still have a phone?”

Martin smiled at him. “I will. My landline should be working again, and I’m planning to stop by the shop and pick up a cheap replacement mobile on the way home. Don’t worry so much, Jon.”

“Alright.” Jon took a deep breath, drawing out the moment. Their flats were located in opposite directions from the Magnus Institute, so they were standing aimlessly just outside its doors. “Alright. We’ll just… do that, then. Go home.”

“I’ll see you first thing tomorrow, Jon,” Martin reminded him.

“Right,” Jon nodded. “Of course. …Can I kiss you once more right now, though?”

Martin laughed, and obliged. Then they parted, Martin mounting his bicycle and Jon making for the bus. 

The feel of Martin’s lips lingered on his the whole way home.

Georgie already knew all the details about Elias and the supernatural curse on their jobs, so Jon provided her with the briefest summary he could of the day—Martin had been attacked but he was fine, Jude saved him because, by the way, all their friends were monsters—in favour of spending the maximum amount of time in bed. 

“I _knew_ there was something wrong about Oliver,” was all Georgie finally said, once Jon had convinced her there was nothing to be done about any of it right then. “Get some sleep, Jon. You look awful.”

“Thanks, Georgie,” Jon said wryly, but all the same, he obeyed, taking his T shot and heading to bed.

He did not dream about worms or fire. He dreamed of the same things he’d been dreaming about for months—a woman peeling back the skin of her arm, a doctor weeping over the bloody flesh of an apple, an old man shaking silently as he watched his bedroom doorknob turn. Jon dreamed of Statements.

He slept late, despite how early he’d turned in, and barely had time to drink his coffee before rushing out the door. 

The bus stop was a few blocks away from their flat, and usually Jon enjoyed the walk. It was a nice chance to get some fresh air, take in all the sights of London. 

Jon stopped enjoying it as much when a particular sight caught his eye, familiar despite the fact that he’d never seen it before. A white van, with a delivery logo blazoned on the side. His blood froze.

Without thinking, he had his mobile out and was dialing Martin. He realized as it rang that he should’ve called Sasha, or even Georgie, because what if Martin hadn’t been able to buy a new phone yet, or if he couldn’t get the same number, it might be—

“Hello?” 

Jon could’ve cried with relief.

“Jon?” Martin sounded confused. “Is everything alright?”

“Martin, it’s them,” Jon babbled, glancing frantically around to see if there was anywhere to run. He thought it was probably pointless, but he had to at least try. He turned on his heel and started sprinting for his apartment. “From—from the statements, number—9982211, they’re here—”

“Oh,” Martin sucked in a breath. “Okay, Jon, stay calm, I need you to tell me who you mean, I don’t know the statements off the top of my head like you do.”

“’Scuse us,” said a voice from behind him. A hand latched around his wrist. “Are you Jonathan Sims?”

“Martin, I’m sorry,” Jon choked out. “I—If we’d had time, I think I could have—”

Pain exploded from the side of his head, and then Jon knew nothing at all.

~ ~ ~

Jon’s voice cut out abruptly on the other end of the line, and there was a clattering sound.

“Jon?” Martin shouted, desperate, not caring that he was standing in the middle of the Institute’s foyer and people were starting to stare. “Jon! Jon, answer me!”

Muffled voices were all he could hear, though he couldn’t make out any of the words. Then there came a sharp, painful burst of static, and the line went dead.

For a moment Martin simply stood there, holding a silent phone to his ear. “Jon,” he said again, stupidly.

The dial tone kicked in, and Martin flinched and pulled away. “Right,” he breathed. “Right,” and fairly flew down the stairs to the Archives.

“Something’s taken Jon,” he announced, even as Tim startled at his sudden entry. 

“Wh—” Tim started. 

“Number nine-nine-eight-two-one-one,” Martin interrupted. He repeated it to himself like a mantra as he stalked down the hallway into the storage room Sasha had started organizing and scoured the shelves, ignoring the sound of Sasha bursting out of her office. He didn’t pay any attention to what Tim told her in the background, either. He had to remember the number Jon’d said.

Eventually the others joined him. After a few minutes of searching, Tim held out a cassette. “I don’t know about 998211, but we have a number 9982- _2_ -11. Is that it?”

Martin cursed himself and his stupid, faulty memory. “Probably,” he said aloud. “Do you have a player?”

“No shortage of those around here,” Tim snorted. Sasha herded them back to the main office space and picked up a tape recorder from one of the desks. Martin snatched it from her hands, shoving the tape into it and hitting ‘play.’

_“Statement of Joshua Gillespie, regarding his time in possession of an apparently empty wooden casket…”_

“Breekon and Hope,” Martin said, when the statement had finally ended. He’d spent the whole time torn between the impulse to skip through it, figure it out _faster,_ and to listen to every word lest he miss any crucial details; but in the end, that was the only “them” Jon could’ve meant. “Jon’s been taken by Breekon and Hope.”

“Oh, God,” Sasha breathed.

“The casket.” Martin’s mind was awash with horrible possibilities. “Sasha, what does that casket _do?”_

Sasha could only shake her head, helpless.

“Okay.” Tim closed his eyes. When he opened them, it was like all the fury he’d been holding back up to now was calcified, forged into something potent and terrible and _sure._ “I’m calling Mike. We’re getting him back.”

Martin just nodded mutely.

“I’ll—” Sasha cleared her throat. “I’ll call Georgie. She might—well. She should know.”

Georgie wasn’t worried. She was _furious._

She’d apparently been setting up to film another episode, because when she showed up at the doors to the Magnus Institute, it was with Melanie in tow. 

“Where is he,” she snarled when Sasha and Martin went to usher her down to the Archives. Tim was still on the phone with Mike. 

“We don’t know, Georgie, that’s sort of the point,” Sasha snapped.

“Not _Jon._ Elias.” 

Sasha eyed her suspiciously. “Do you promise not to attack him on sight?”

Georgie pressed her lips together.

“I’m not telling you if you’re just going to get yourself killed,” Sasha said severely.

“Fine,” Georgie ground out. “I promise not to attack Elias right away, if you tell me where he is.”

Sasha sighed, rubbing her forehead. “He’s upstairs in his office. Now can we please go back down to the—oh, and she’s gone.”

Georgie was holding true to her word and hadn’t moved, but the same could not be said of Melanie, who was hiking up the stairs with a vengeance.

Martin couldn’t bring himself to try and stop her.

“Mike’s on his way, he said he’d bring Jude—” Tim pulled up short as he reached them. “Where’s she going?”

“I think Melanie’s on her way to assault Elias, actually,” Sasha said tiredly. 

“Awesome,” Tim cheered. “Count me in!” He chased her up the stairs. 

Martin and Georgie shared a look, and Georgie shrugged. “Do you really think you can stop them?”

“Ugh. No,” Sasha grumbled.

They followed the others to Elias’ office.

“…manipulating them, Jon, everyone, you absolute _bastard,_ ” Melanie was shouting. Oh—oh, good, she had a knife. That was fine, Martin thought hysterically. She was brandishing it at Elias.

“You do know that you can’t kill me without killing all of them,” Elias pointed out, raising a calm eyebrow at the blade.

“Maybe so,” Melanie snarled. “If you’re telling the truth, which I doubt. But either way, there are a lot of ways you can hurt someone without killing them.”

“Hm,” said Elias. “Yes, I suppose you’re right about that.” 

He locked eyes with Melanie, and the back of Martin’s neck prickled. “An _awful_ lot of ways to hurt someone,” Elias repeated.

Melanie stumbled back with a gasp. 

Georgie’s eyes widened and she ran over, grabbing Melanie’s arm to support her as she slumped in place. “What—”

“Now,” Elias said coldly. “Allow me to make something very clear: you cannot help Jonathan. You never could. You cannot find him, and if you try—well. Ask Melanie here just how unpleasant I can make things for you.”

Melanie slowly raised her eyes, glassy with tears but vibrant with hatred. “Go to hell.”

Tim’s knuckles were white at his sides, and he spoke through gritted teeth. “What did you do?”

“To Melanie?” Elias cocked his head. “Or to Jon?”

“Right,” Martin heard Sasha whisper to herself from behind him. She pushed her way forward, adjusting her glasses. “Elias,” she said calmly. “We—the Archival Assistants—we serve the Eye, correct? I want to Know.” Her eyes glimmered behind the purple frames. “Tell me what happened to Jon.”

“Oh!” Elias seemed almost genuinely surprised. “My, my, Ms. James. You know, this is why I would never have selected you for the Archivist. Far too competent. You’d be just like Gertrude, I fear.”

Tim hissed from the corner. Martin held out a hand in his direction, without looking away from Elias. _Hush,_ he willed him. _Wait. Listen._

Elias glanced at him, twinkling with amusement. “You know, though,” he turned back to Sasha, “I think I really will answer your question. Since you asked so nicely.”

He folded his hands across the desk. “Jonathan Sims has been taken. It doesn’t really matter by what, now, does it? The answer to your question is this: I have arranged for an End to Jonathan Sims.”

Georgie sucked in a breath.

“If—and by no means is this a guarantee—but _if_ you ever see him again, you will not be seeing Jonathan Sims. It will be an Eye, having finally accepted its rightful role as the Archivist.” Elias leaned back, and then—then he _smiled._ “Will that be all?”

Tim lunged.

The only reason he didn’t succeed in beating Elias to a pulp and probably getting himself killed in the process was because a pale arm, etched with a branching white scar, latched itself around his waist. Mike Crew was stronger than his small form would suggest. 

“Oliver’s waiting in the car,” Jude said from beside him. Martin hadn’t heard them come up, but then, he’d been a bit distracted. Both of the Avatars were looking at Elias with something much, much scarier than rage.

“Let’s go, Tim,” Mike said quietly. 

Tim made a strangled noise, straining to reach Elias for an instant longer before subsiding.

“Mark my words, Elias,” Georgie murmured before anyone moved. Her voice was clear as a bell. “You will _regret this.”_

Elias nodded indulgently. “I’m sure I will.” 

Martin clenched his own fists to keep from following Tim’s example. If he got himself killed, the others would probably get upset, and then they’d all be too distracted to properly—properly _find_ Jon.

Tim actually spat at Elias before letting Mike herd him out the door.

No one said a word until they reached the car Jude and Mike had arrived in—a long, black, old-fashioned model, with enough seats to fit them all comfortably. It reminded Martin vaguely of a hearse. Oliver was in the driver’s seat, and he pulled away as soon as they were all inside, before Martin even had time to pull the passenger door shut. He swerved through the streets of London far too quickly to be safe.

A block away from the Institute, Sasha’s poised expression fell from her face like a mask. “Oh, _God,”_ she sobbed out, and Martin offered an arm because he was closest. She fell into him, clutching his shirt with one hand and wringing it helplessly as she cried.

“What the hell do we do?” Tim asked, staring at the seat in front of him.

“Oliver,” Georgie said. She was still holding Melanie curled up against her side, but she stared into the rearview mirror to meet his eyes. “Elias said he’d arranged for Jon’s End.”

Jude looked sharply over from the passenger seat beside Oliver. “No,” she said accusingly. “You wouldn’t—”

“I _didn’t,”_ Oliver exclaimed. Martin couldn’t really see his face from where he was sitting, but he sounded hurt. “Terminus gets _everyone_ in the End, I don’t _need_ to do that kind of thing, you both know that. And even if I did, I wouldn’t. Not to Jonathan. Not to any of you. Georgie, I promise, I had nothing to do with this.” 

“Alright,” Georgie said slowly. “Alright. I think I believe you. Just—why do you feel so much like… like evil?”

Oliver sighed, long and low. “I expect you’ve had an unpleasant encounter with one like me, haven’t you.” It wasn’t a question. “I don’t know what happened, but I really don’t mean you any harm.”

“Alright,” Georgie murmured again. “But—could it have been another one ‘like you’? Who took him?”

Oliver frowned. “Not unless there’s someone I don’t know about.”

“It was Breekon and Hope,” Martin cut in, as Oliver pulled into the underground parking of an ominous-looking tenement.

“Oh. Hm,” Jude made a face. “That really doesn’t narrow it down at all.”

“Why not?” Tim demanded. “Don’t they just cart around some horrible casket? If we know what that does, it should be easy to figure out the rest, yeah?”

“Wait, are they still doing that?” Jude looked over at Oliver. 

“Have been for quite a while,” Oliver answered mildly.

“Either way,” Mike added, voice distant, “they tend to do odd jobs and deliveries for nearly all the Entities once in a while. They could have taken Jon for the Buried, or delivered him to almost anyone else. Hard to say which.”

“Well, then,” Martin ground out, voice too loud as Oliver shut off the engine, “ _how_ do we narrow it down?”

Oliver, Mike and Jude shared an uneasy look. 

“We might,” Oliver began, “need a Hunter.”

Nobody actually had Daisy’s number, so once they got settled in Oliver’s flat, Sasha called Basira.

“Hiya!” Sasha said brightly into the phone, the tear tracks still dark on her skin in sharp contrast to her tone. “Funny thing, but I was just wondering if I could chat for a mo with Daisy, actually?”

She paused as Basira responded. “Speaker!” Sasha pulled a face. “Yeah, speaker’s fine! Actually, I’m just gonna do the same on our end, okay?”

She took the phone away and glanced around. “Cool with everyone?” 

Jude gave her a thumbs up. Sasha sighed and set her mobile to speakerphone.

“—help you?” Daisy sounded a bit gruff, as usual, but mostly bewildered.

“Er, yeah!” Sasha’s tone slipped into the cadence Martin was beginning to recognize, the calm, strong, professional tone she used when she really wanted to break down. “It’s—well. Jon’s gone missing. I’m here with Oliver, Jude and Mike, they said you could help.”

“I—from games night?” Daisy sounded, if anything, more confused. “Why? Are you accusing me of something?”

“Only being an Avatar,” Tim interrupted. Sasha looked like she was barely restraining herself from shouting at him.

“What the hell does that mean?”

Mike’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit,” Jude whispered gleefully.

“Erm. Daisy,” Oliver cut in. His tone was measured, careful. “Do you… do you not know?”

“Know. _what,”_ Daisy growled.

“About…” Oliver trailed off. Martin almost would have said he was floundering, if that seemed like a word that could ever be applied to Oliver.

“About the supernatural,” Martin supplied. It was a good starting point, at least.

“Yes, I know about the _supernatural._ Basira and I both have plenty of experience with it.” Daisy sounded frustrated. “What does that have to do with me or Jon?”

“Why, Daisy!” Jude sounded positively delighted. “Don’t you know you’re one of the monsters, too?”

Daisy hung up.

“Jude!” Sasha burst out. “That was _not helpful!”_

“Downright destructive, actually,” Mike pointed out.

“Oh, _f—”_

“Look,” Martin interrupted. “I’m sure Jude was just trying to help, right, Jude?” He glared until she nodded. “The important thing is that we not fight, right now, if we actually want to have a chance of _bringing Jon back alive.”_

He was shouting by the end of his sentence. Even worse, he found he didn’t care.

“Sorry, Martin,” Mike muttered, unexpectedly. More unexpected still was Jude’s grudging nod of agreement. There was a beat of repentant quiet.

“Shake hands and make up?” Jude suggested to Mike brightly.

 _“Jude,”_ Oliver rebuked.

“None of you are any fun,” Jude huffed, flopping back on the couch.

“All of you shut up, I’m leaving a message,” Sasha snapped from her armchair. “Hi, Basira,” she went on sweetly, “this is Sasha. I want to apologize for the others, that really wasn’t on. I do kind of really need to talk to Daisy, though, because while no one is actually saying she’s a monster—except Jude, who just feels cranky because _she_ actually is one—it seems that Daisy does have some pretty special abilities, and we really need her help to find Jon. Please call back. It’s—I wouldn’t be bothering you after all that, if it wasn’t important.”

She hung up and, for good measure, flung the phone across the room. Then she drew up her knees and hugged them to her chest.

“Okay.” Georgie took a deep breath. “What now?”

“Is there anyone else we can contact? Another one of these ‘Avatars’ who might know something?” Melanie seemed to have recovered, more or less, from whatever had happened with Elias, and now she was leaning forward intently. 

Mike, who seemed to be growing steadily more grounded the more time passed, raised a hand. “I can reach out to the Fairchilds, ask if they had anything to do with this. I doubt they did, though, I already told Simon he wasn’t allowed to mess with you.”

“It wasn’t the Desolation, but I’ll check in with the Dark and the Slaughter, put the fear of… well, _me_ into them. Ollie, you’re close with the Web, right?” Jude looked at him. 

Oliver made a face. “As much as anyone can be, I suppose, without getting caught in it.”

“Bold of you to assume we all haven’t been caught in it already,” Mike murmured, and Tim stared at him.

“Did you—you just _memed?”_ Tim shook his head. “I mean, old meme, and unnecessarily ominous, but… wow, Mike. Guess you really do have hidden depths.”

“What tipped you off?” Mike smirked. Tim rolled his eyes, but his shoulders seemed a little looser than they’d been.

“What’s the Web?” Martin demanded, ignoring them.

“Another Avatar, I suppose, if that’s the word we’re using,” Oliver answered. “Annabelle Cane is the only one I know of in London.”

“Spiders and manipulation,” Mike summarized. “If anyone knows where Jon is, she would, but whether she tells us is another question entirely.”

“She’d _better,”_ Martin muttered. “Who else is there?”

Oliver held up his fingers, ticking them off as he went. “There’s the Flesh, which is mostly just Jared and his pets; the Lonely, the Distortion, and the Stranger; and then there’s the Corruption, which you killed”—he indicated Jude—“the Hunt, which is too disorganized to really do much, and the Buried, which is housed by Breekon and Hope. And the Eye, of course. I think the Lonely is most likely, actually, the Lukases are quite close with—”

Across the room, Sasha’s phone rang. 

“Oh! Damn!” She scrambled out of her chair and ran to pick it up. “Hello?”

Martin really hoped it was Basira on the other end, because the stormcloud behind Sasha’s counterfeit smile was dissipating as the conversation went on. “Oh. Okay. Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you, Daisy.” Even better. “Er, if you could come to—” she looked at Oliver, who nodded, and she rattled off his address. “That would be wonderful. Thank you so much. And sorry, again, about Jude.”

Jude opened her mouth to protest, and Martin shot her a look. She shut it again with a click.

Sasha hung up. “That was Daisy,” she explained unnecessarily. “She’s—she and Basira, they’re on their way now.”

“Cool,” Georgie said. “Then is now a good time to ask what, exactly, the Hunt does?”

“I mean, it’s pretty self-explanatory,” Jude drawled. 

“Avatars of the Hunt feed on the fear of those that are chased, pursued, preyed upon,” Oliver explained, looking tired. “They don’t care about the kill, not really, but when it comes to tracking something or someone, no matter how carefully they hide—well. The Hunt is powerful, that way.”

“What if Jon’s somewhere that just… can’t be found?” Martin asked, voice small. He thought of the statements he’d read, of people wandering an empty world, or crushed in caves that couldn’t exist, just… gone, never to be seen again.

Mike cleared his throat. Jude looked away. 

“I hope,” Oliver said heavily, “he is not.”

Daisy was kind enough not to tear out anyone’s throat, though she looked a bit like she wanted to when Sasha explained the situation. 

“You’re saying I’m the servant of an evil fear god that likes chasing things,” she said flatly.

“Sort of, yeah,” Martin said awkwardly, when Sasha seemed lost for words.

“I mean…” Basira began, sounding thoughtful. Daisy whirled to stare at her, and she shrugged a bit. “It would explain some things, love.”

“No, it wouldn’t!” Daisy shouted. She ran her hands through her hair, grabbing at the roots. “It—it can’t!”

“Daisy…” Basira trailed off. She reached out a hand, but Daisy shrugged it away.

“Anchors,” Mike said suddenly, interrupting whatever Basira was about to say next.

“What?”

Mike coughed as Daisy glared at him. “You—you need anchors. If, I mean, if you want to stay human. You don’t have to be like…” he trailed off. “Me. Or any of us. You’re of the Hunt, yeah, but—you can hold onto yourself, I think, if you have something to keep you… grounded. At least,” he added, “I hope so. I think so.”

Basira reached out again and caught Daisy’s hand in hers. “Daisy,” she repeated quietly. “Look at me.”

Martin felt suddenly like he was intruding on something horribly private. He looked around for somewhere to go, but Oliver’s flat was tiny—even the kitchen was just a set of shelves and an oven across from where they were all currently sitting.

“I don’t care if you’re not human,” Basira said. “I do not care what you become. I have stood by while you murdered suspects in cold blood. I have said nothing when you drove people out to the forest and came back alone. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Daisy. I love you. I _will_ love you, always, even if it damns me.”

Daisy was shaking. 

“I don’t want you to be a monster,” Basira whispered. “But even if you are, I’ll love you still.”

Slowly, Daisy raised the hand that wasn’t holding Basira’s and brushed it, ever so gently, against the other woman’s cheek. “For you, then,” Daisy murmured huskily. “For you, I’ll try to stay human. I’m sorry, Basira.”

Basira smiled, eyes clear and gaze steady. “I never had to forgive you. Even if that makes me a monster, too.”

Jude cleared her throat.

“Right,” Basira blinked. She turned back to the rest of them. “What’s this about Jon, then?”

“Er,” Tim said. “He’s… missing?”

Daisy nodded, sharp and short. “Tell us what happened.”

While the Archive staff filled Daisy and Basira in on everything they knew, Mike, Jude and Oliver headed out to “make some calls.” 

“Stay here,” Oliver ordered them. “It’s safer that way.”

It was well past lunchtime, but Martin wasn’t hungry. He still made tea. 

“So your boss is an evil fear god—”

“Servant of a fear god,” Sasha corrected Daisy. “Probably. I don’t think he’s an actual god. Mike said they didn’t exist as persons, so…”

“—who has a creepy stalker vendetta against Jon, and none of you can quit your jobs or kill him without dying yourselves, so now Jon’s gone missing and we need to find him before Elias does something horrible,” Daisy concluded.

“That about sums it up,” Tim agreed wryly.

“Well,” Daisy blew out a breath. “Best get started, then.”

When the other Avatars got back, though, it was with empty hands. If anyone knew what had happened to Jon, they weren’t saying. Peter Lukas was the only one to give them any information at all, and all he said was:

“Oh, _him!_ Did Elias finally find someone to do his dirty work, then? No, I wouldn’t touch him. Can’t even come near the Institute these days. Not nearly as Lonely there as it should be.”

“I think they’re more scared of Elias than of us,” Mike summarized thoughtfully. Jude scoffed, offended.

“No, that’s probably fair,” Oliver conceded. “The Eye has its hand in an awful lot of pies, these days. I wouldn’t want to cross it either, in their shoes.”

“Okay, but where does that leave us?” Georgie demanded.

Jude pretended not to have heard the question. Mike looked at the ceiling.

“That leaves us with Daisy,” Oliver said gravely. 

Daisy, who’d been doing something with her laptop all afternoon that she insisted was helping her search, looked a bit stricken. “Right,” she said, putting her shoulders back. “I—I’m on it.”

For the next week, that left the rest of them sitting on their hands, with no way of looking or helping in the search. No way of locating Jon.

Daisy found nothing.

Sasha was tired. She and her Assistants—the other Assistants, she reminded herself, she wasn’t really the Archivist—were mostly staying home from work, not really seeing any point in going in and not wanting to face Elias, ever again, if possible.

So that left Sasha at more loose ends than ever, sitting at home and waiting on news about her friend who, by now, was probably dead. Or worse. What was that statistic on missing persons—most of the ones not found within the first forty-eight hours stayed missing for good? She supposed it didn’t really apply to supernatural kidnappings, but given what Elias had said… she didn’t have high hopes.

She’d never say it to Martin, of course. The man was falling apart at the seams.

Sasha sighed, a long, aching thing, as she curled her fingers around her coffee cup. She was back at the corner table of her favourite café, because despite everything it still made the best coffee. It wasn’t like she had anything else to do, so she sat there every morning until her drink went cold.

Someone slid into the seat across from her. 

Sasha almost couldn’t even feel surprised. Slowly, she dragged her eyes up, repressing the shudder that tried to creep along her spine at the sheer _wrongness_ of the thing that sat before her—those too-long fingers, too-sharp shoulders, coiling blond locks that shifted when she looked away.

“Hello, Assistant,” Michael said.

“What do you want,” she responded.

Michael smiled at her, tilting its head just a bit too far to be natural. “Why, now, what’s got you all worked up? I just wanted to know where your Archivist has gone. I haven’t seen him around in the past few days. Is he dead?”

Quicker than a snake striking, Sasha lashed out to grip Michael’s wrist, ignoring the way it felt like grabbing a bag of wet bones. _“Did you take him?”_ she hissed.

Michael blinked at her. “I must say,” he crackled slowly, “you’ve gotten quite rude since we last spoke. What if I did take him? What would you do?”

“I—” Sasha felt tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. She tried to force them back. “I would—you would—Michael, give him _back.”_

Michael hummed. “Really, Assistant, do you think that wise? Return the Archivist to his place of power?”

 _“He isn’t the Archivist!”_ Sasha shouted. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, now. “He’s just an Assistant, he doesn’t _want_ to be the Archivist, _I’m_ the acting Archivist and it was my job to keep him safe! And I failed! And now he’s—he’s trapped with _you,_ or something worse, and it’s all Elias’ fault but he won’t stop trying to do—whatever horrible thing he’s trying to do, and now we’ll never see Jon again! Not unless he’s dead or—or something Else—” She was sobbing now, and she knew she was making a scene. She had to stop before management came out and told her to leave, a black woman crying in public just wasn’t on—

“There, there,” Michael patted her arm tentatively.

“Wh—” Sasha looked up. Sure enough, Michael seemed… deeply uncomfortable. “Are you really trying to—what, to make me feel better?”

“Is it working?” Michael asked hopefully.

Despite herself, Sasha snorted, and then she had to go fishing through her purse for a tissue. “Maybe a little,” she admitted. “I would feel a _lot_ better if you gave Jon back, though.” She eyed him as she blew her nose.

“Hm, about that,” Michael shifted in his seat.

“You’ve no idea where he is, do you,” Sasha asked flatly.

“No,” Michael admitted. He laughed, and it echoed the way it always did, but it also sounded just a little nervous. “Perhaps, though—perhaps I can help you look?”

Sasha considered him as she wiped her cheeks, trying to pretend nothing had happened. “Yeah,” she decided. “I think you really could.”

Martin really didn’t know why Sasha had invited Michael, of all people, to join in the search. He (it? When they asked Michael about pronouns, all they got was that horrible laugh) was about as monstrous as it got. He also _really_ didn’t get along with Mike, for some reason.

“You know,” Michael said in that airy way he put on when he was about to say something awful, “if it wasn’t for you, I may very well still be me.”

Mike scoffed. They were at his place, this time, ostensibly planning how to get Jon back and take Elias down, but mostly what they did at these meetings was huddle together and reminisce about what it felt like to be normal. 

“I could say the same to you,” Mike answered bitterly.

“Hmm.” Michael looked thoughtful. “I suppose you could. Personhood’s a funny thing, isn’t it? Michael would have wished for you to run a little slower, and be caught; because perhaps then Gertrude wouldn’t have pushed him through my door. But the Spiral is what pushed _you_ into the Void That Consumes All. A push and a chance, that was all, and two kaleidescopes fall where before there were beings. A funny thing.”

“Maybe,” Oliver said without looking up from the chess game he was playing with himself, “you don’t have to be one or the other. That would please the Spiral, don’t you think?”

“Something impossible,” Michael mused. “I suppose it would, wouldn’t it?”

Martin rubbed his temples. He felt like he never knew what was going on, these days. Which would be fine, except that Jon was… was missing, probably fine, he was okay, just. Not there at the moment.

_If we’d had time…_

He would—he would know how Jon was going to finish that sentence. Jon would tell him. 

He would.

(He was gone, wasn’t he?)

Martin was staring at the plain oaken coffee table, blankly trying to convince himself he hadn’t lost hope, when Daisy burst through the door. “I’ve found him,” she panted, Basira hot on her heels.

Martin felt his world tip upside down a second time. He was grabbing his jacket before he had the chance to think about why. 

_They’d found him._

Everything else could wait.

~ ~ ~

When Jon first woke up, everything was dark.

“Hello?” he said, or tried to say, but there was a gag in his mouth, so it came out more like “Hmmfrm?”

“Oh, he’s awake!” exclaimed a voice from beside him. It was far too cheery, the kind of bubbly over-the-top glee that would be eerie enough on a childcare worker, but here in whatever dark place Jon was tied up in… he shuddered at the sound of it. The creature beside him moved.

Jon’s eyes were adjusting to the dim light, and he could make out something long, head and shoulders taller than any ordinary human, with pale hands and a face that looked blankly white in the darkness. It seemed to be wearing some sort of hat and suit.

“Hello, there, Archivist,” it said in the same awful voice. “Did you have a good sleep?”

“…Hrmp?” Jon said.

“Yes, I suppose it would’ve been a bit uncomfortable. I did try to make it a bit easier on you, though. I’m a _good_ friend, you see. Sarah wanted to use nails, but I told her, no, no, Elias wouldn’t like that very much! So you have these lovely ropes keeping you nice and cozy instead. Aren’t I _nice,_ Jon? Can I call you Jon?”

“Nrm,” Jon answered decidedly.

“Well, Jon, would you like to know where you are?”

Jon nodded. He would, after all, very much like to know where he was.

“Now, I know it’s a bit dark for you, so let me—ha! ha! Let me enlighten you, Jon.” The creature in front of him—Jon was increasingly sure it wasn’t human—made some sort of flourish. A single flickering lightbulb came on overhead.

Jon screamed through the gag.

There were awful waxwork figures all around him, but he barely noticed them. He’d been expecting something monstrous, but—the thing in front of him didn’t seem as though it had ever been human at all. It was like a shop mannequin, too-tall and featureless, dressed in ill-fitting clothes that looked like they’d been stolen years ago off the body of a circus ringmaster. Every inch of exposed plastic was smooth and perfectly blank, except where it was streaked with old, dried blood.

“Now, that isn’t very nice,” scolded the thing without a face. “You don’t like the way I look, is that it? Well, Jon—can I call you Jon?—that’s alright. I’ll tell you a special little secret…” It brought its smooth, pale head up close, right to Jon’s ear as he flinched away. “If you don’t like my face,” the mouthless monster whispered, “I can always take yours, instead.”

It sprang back. “In fact, I’m going to do exactly that! Do you want to know why? Of course you do. You’re the Archivist!” It giggled. “Well, I’ll tell you. You see, there used to be a lovely, lovely ancient skin I’d wear on special occasions. It was _perfect._ But then, do you know what happened? Your people _stole_ it! Now, wasn’t that rude of them? _Very_ rude. I think your old Archivist even destroyed it. But that’s alright, because now she’s gone, and our friend Elias seems _very_ attached to you. ‘Don’t touch my Archivist,’” the mannequin deepened its voice to imitate Elias, “‘or I will not be responsible for my actions. He’s _far_ too powerful for you to handle. Stay away from Jonathan Sims,’ and so on.” 

Jon was suddenly, horribly, reminded of Sasha’s own silly imitations of Elias, back when he’d still been able to pretend none of this was real. But then, whenever Sasha put on her impressions, she was pretending to be something stiff and cold, only ever half-succeeding at hiding all her laughter underneath. This thing was—like Sasha turned inside-out. 

“Are you not enjoying this, Jon?” The mannequin inquired emptily.

“Mm hmm nn hm mm hmgmm hnm,” Jon mumbled irritably.

“I suppose that’s fair enough,” it sighed. “I’ll get straight to the point, then! Elias seems quite convinced that you’re _terribly_ powerful, _terribly_ dangerous, so I’ve decided you’ll make an excellent replacement for the skin your Gertrude stole.”

“Smim?” Jon suddenly, desperately hoped he was misunderstanding the situation.

“Yes, silly, don’t make me repeat myself!” The mannequin waggled a long, white finger. “I am planning a _dance,_ you see, and I need a lovely new frock to wear. I think you’ll do quite nicely! And even if you aren’t as deliciously powerful as Elias seems to believe, well—I think there’s something poetic about using an Archivist to replace what an Archivist stole, don’t you?”

Jon couldn’t breathe.

“But unfortunately, we can’t get started right away.” The thing tapped him on the forehead teasingly, cold plastic tingling against his skin. “You really should have a better morning routine, Jon—can I call you Jon?—we’re going to have to do some work before you’re in _any_ shape to be peeled. Do you have a preferred brand of lotion?”

“Grm hrm _hrll,”_ Jon spat.

“Alright, I suppose I’ll just get a selection,” the mannequin shrugged.

The next few days were exceedingly surreal. Jon quickly discovered that being in constant mortal peril was not incompatible with boredom, and as he spent all his time bound and gagged in a chair, boredom came on surprisingly fast. He spent the majority of his first day pulling at the ropes on his arms, but he couldn’t reach the knots and didn’t dare chafe his wrists too hard; he had a feeling that the mannequin would have no qualms about switching from ropes to nails, after all, if he did too much damage to his—he shuddered—skin, trying to escape.

Eventually, he just started sleeping a lot. 

He was periodically interrupted by silent figures with faces that didn’t fit them right coming in to slather him with lavender-scented lotion. He thought his skin was probably going to wind up in better condition than it had ever been.

(If he made it out of this, Jon was never so much as looking at anything lavender again.)

Time was hard to gauge in the windowless waxwork room; it didn’t help that something about being there made Jon feel like he would never be hungry or thirsty again. It was an uneasy realization, but at least he wasn’t suffering from the lack of food or water his captors were providing. 

Jon thought it might be the fifth or sixth day when he heard Elias.

_Nikola is nearly ready to skin you, you know._

Jon startled. For an instant he wondered if he’d started imagining things, but Elias’ irritated sigh echoed in his head. _Don’t be tiresome, Jonathan._ Jon had a vivid mental image of Elias at his desk, rubbing his brow with one hand. _This is actually quite a bit of effort, so pay attention, if you please._

It wasn’t like there was much else to think about, but for Elias, Jon would do his best. 

He wondered if Martin liked alpacas. 

In his mind, Elias growled. _Jonathan. I—be quiet for one second—I am trying to save your life, you idiot!_

Wait. _Really?_

Jon had a sense of Elias regaining his composure. _Yes. For all my… unfortunate treatment of you and your coworkers, I truly do not wish to see you come to harm._

 _Well, then, you could,_ Jon suggested, _and I know you’ll think this is an outrageous suggestion, but you_ could _come help me escape._

 _I’m afraid it’s not that simple,_ Elias replied. _Nikola’s done something so that I can’t See where you are. You are going to have to get yourself free._

Wonderful. So he was back to not-chafing his wrists against the ropes. 

_Not quite,_ Elias corrected. _There is one thing you could do to escape._

 _Do tell,_ Jon thought wryly.

 _You could Become the Archivist,_ Elias told him.

Jon laughed out loud through his gag, bitter and sharp. _Go to hell,_ he answered, the same thing he’d said to the mannequin.

_Jonathan, just hear me out,_ Elias went on, but Jon shook his head.

 _You deliberately set this up,_ he accused. _You told the mannequin—Nikola, did you call it?—that I was ‘powerful’ enough to be used in whatever this_ dance _thing is that it has planned._

Elias gave the impression of a sigh. _Very well, if this is how you want to do it. Yes. I manipulated Nikola into taking you for her Ritual. But it hardly matters now, Jon. I wasn’t lying when I said I couldn’t See you. You have two options: either you accept your role as the Archivist and all the power that entails, granting you the strength to free yourself from the Stranger; or you die, weak and alone, and Nikola will use your skin to end the world._

 _End the_ world? _Excuse me?_ Jon thought.

 _That’s what she’s working for, yes._ Elias sounded impatient. _The Great Unknowing, wherein all that is Known will be reversed and all that Is will be undone. She wants your skin to do it, though anything infused with enough power would suffice. Nikola has a flair for the dramatic, you see. But, Jon, you can stop her. I’m sorry I’ve forced you into this situation, but it was only because it was inevitable, eventually. You are_ meant _to be the Archivist. Fighting this will only get you killed, and likely quite a lot of others along with you._

Jon hung his head, trying to think. _What exactly do you want me to do?_

 _You need to embrace the Eye,_ Elias answered readily. _Reach out to it. Thirst for it. Accept that you will give it anything, everything, all that you are and all that you love, if it will accept you in return._

Jon closed his eyes.

He didn’t even know what the Eye _was,_ not really. Some sort of evil fear god, he supposed, given the context clues. 

He didn’t want to serve an evil fear god. 

He didn’t want to end up like Prentiss.

But… 

He squeezed his eyes tighter shut. Elias could not be trusted. There was no reason to think he was telling the truth about ‘Nikola,’ and her plans to end the world.

But she did plan to use his skin. And she was a monster. She hurt people, and she was going to use him to do it.

Also, Jon really did not want to die.

His mind wandered to his dreams, and the place it went when he read statements. He didn’t want to be a monster. But—there was a part of him… a part of him that enjoyed it. Watching the fear of others play out in front of him, drinking it in like a bitter, heady draught. His eyes drifted half open without his permission.

 _Yes, Jonathan,_ Elias crooned in his mind. _That’s right. Embrace it._

Jon didn’t want to. Except for the part of him that did.

 _Now,_ Elias hummed, _Let go of everything else. All that would hold you back from this glorious Becoming. You are better than all of it, Jonathan. You are the Archivist._

Jon didn’t want to, but what choice did he have?

Georgie’s voice came to him suddenly, a memory of his own rather than someone else in his head. _Whatever happens, Jonathan Sims, you won’t stop being_ you. _Alright?_

He remembered the breathtaking certainty on her face. 

He couldn’t—he couldn’t let Georgie down.

He remembered how Sasha had broken down in tears to learn what their friends really were. The cold, betrayed face Tim turned to Mike when he’d said he served the Vast. 

The hunger in Jude’s expression when Martin gripped Jon’s burned arm.

The look in Martin’s eyes when Jon kissed him.

 _No,_ Jon thought suddenly, opening his eyes all the way. _No, Elias. Fuck your god. I have better things to do than serve an Eye._

Unadulterated fury swept into his mind. _Do you think they will come for you?_ Elias sneered. An image of Martin’s face forced itself before Jon’s eyes, so vivid the room around him faded away. Martin was pale as death. He looked… _devastated._ There were no tears in his eyes. There was no hope there, either. _He gave up on finding you the very day you disappeared._ The image vanished, and for all its cruelty Jon almost cried out at its loss. _Oh, he’s been lying to himself, trying to make believe that he’ll see you again, but he knows the truth. They all do. No one is coming for you, Jonathan. You will die, alone, lost in unspeakable agonies, and no one will ever find enough of you to bury._

Tears were streaming down Jon’s face. _Better that,_ he thought, all the same, _than a creature like you._

Elias didn’t answer. Instead, the feeling of something watching Jon grew stronger, doubled and tripled, until he felt himself flayed open under a white-hot light. Every fear, every awful memory was pried out of his mind in an incoherent shriek of agony. 

Jon thought he was screaming, but he couldn’t remember if he had a throat.

That was when Daisy burst through the door.

Michael offered to escort them through his hallways when Daisy caught her breath enough to explain where Jon was being held—some abandoned wax museum way out in Great Yarmouth. 

Honestly, Martin wasn’t paying that much attention. Even when, in the halls, Basira quietly scolded Daisy for bringing “that many grenades to a rescue mission,” he honestly couldn’t bring himself to care.

_Jon was alive._

And all they had to do to get him back was, Michael said, “be willing to lose themselves, just a little.”

The hallways were dizzying. Tim complained that they gave him a headache; Mike just shot him a look.

“Try being hunted by the Spiral your whole life, only to find yourself entering it willingly,” he said.

“Fair enough,” Tim grimaced. “You win.”

Georgie had to walk beside Jude to keep her from setting things on fire. Melanie was not pleased.

Martin didn’t _care._

Jon was alive, and Daisy said her intel seemed to indicate that he was fine. Not being—well. Not becoming a monster. Just a bit stuck, held prisoner by something named Nikola Orsinov, who Oliver explained was the chief manifestation of the Stranger. 

Martin had long since lost track of where they were in the Distortion’s halls when a new door finally appeared at the end.

“Hunter, would you do the honours?” Michael grinned. 

Daisy rolled her eyes, pushed back her sleeves and rammed the door open.

The sound of Jon screaming was the first thing Martin heard. 

“No!” Martin shouted. He shoved his way forward, Sasha close on his tail. “Stop it! _Jon,_ Jon, we’re here, it’s—it’s us!”

He stopped short when he realized they were in a mostly empty room. Just an awful lot of wax figurines draped against every wall, weird and still and creepy, and—and Jon. Jon, tied to a chair in the middle of the room, a gag in his mouth and his face drenched in tears. His eyes were wide, dark and unseeing.

“Jon,” Martin breathed, and ran to him.

In the background, other doors than Michael’s burst open. Vaguely Martin registered the sound of mad laughter and what was probably Daisy’s grenades. He didn’t pay attention to any of it.

“Jon,” he said again, like a broken record, kneeling so he was at eye level with the other man. “Please, look at me. Can you hear me?”

Jon’s voice had broken moments after they’d come through the door, but he was still breathing oddly, and his eyes stared fixedly into the distance. He didn’t seem to register Martin’s presence at all.

“Oh,” Martin said. 

Tears were brimming in his own eyes, now, and he blinked them back furiously. Now was _not_ the time. He—they weren’t too late. They couldn’t be. Not by—not by a matter of seconds.

“Jonathan Sims, don’t you do this to me,” Martin blurted. He brushed the hair gently back from Jon’s face, shifting himself so he could imagine Jon was looking him in the eyes. “Don’t you dare,” he hissed, “leave me alone like this. You—you have to finish your sentence. You never told me… If we’d had time, you said. We’ve _got_ time, Jon, all the time in the world, you just—you just have to come back and _tell me.”_

He waited, but aside from a particularly loud explosion behind him, there was no answer. 

“Damn it, Jon,” Martin whispered. He bent forward, gripping the fabric of Jon’s shirt like a lifeline, as he lost the fight against tears. “Come back to me.”

“…Hrmhnn?” 

Martin’s head jolted up, and he barely missed cracking it against Jon’s chin. Jon, who was blinking at him, _looking_ at him. 

_“Jon,_ oh, thank God,” Martin cried. “Are—are you okay?”

“Hrm hmm,” Jon answered, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh—sorry, right,” Martin swiped at his eyes and sheepishly reached forward to undo the gag. 

Jon made a face as it came away, smacking his lips uncomfortably. “Martin Blackwood,” he said, smiling at him like he’d never seen anything more beautiful or hilarious. “I love you.”

“Jon, you absolute _bastard,”_ Martin sobbed.

“Alright, there’ll be time for that later,” Melanie panted, running up from behind him. “Tim’s still finishing up his little extra mission, but I think Daisy’s starting to run low on ammo, so we’ve got to move, fast.”

“I’m a bit… er. Tied up, at the moment,” Jon pointed out.

Melanie sighed at him. “You’ve been spending too much time with Basira,” she grunted, and pulled out her gun to shoot at the bolts securing Jon’s chair to the floor. “Martin, can you pick him up?” she went on, ignoring the way they both yelped.

“What, chair and everything?” Martin squeaked.

Melanie rolled her eyes. “No, I did that just for fun. Hurry!”

“Er.” Martin looked at Jon, who sighed. 

“You might as well. I would like to get out of here with my skin somewhat intact, if not my dignity.”

So Martin hoisted him up, and Melanie shot down the horribly inhuman figures that chased after them as they ran for Michael’s door. The moment they made it through the doorway, Melanie slammed it shut.

“Michael says he can make it so the door’s only visible to the ones he’s interested in,” Melanie explained, “but it has to be closed first. We can just wait here for the others.”

“Ah, right,” Jon started, as Martin set him down carefully and borrowed a knife from Melanie to start sawing at his ropes, “about that. …Michael?”

“Hoo, boy,” Melanie sighed. “You’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

Melanie and Martin took it in turns to explain what they’d all been doing since he’d gone missing, interrupted every so often as the door flew open to admit one of the others, who joined in the explanations. Jon seemed a bit surprised to learn it had been nearly two weeks. 

Sasha flung herself at him when she saw Jon was okay. Georgie, on the other hand, snatched him up in a bruising hug and muttered threats in his ear. 

“Yes, I’m very sorry for getting kidnapped,” Jon told her, patting her shoulder awkwardly.

“You’d _better_ be,” she grumbled.

Tim, Jude and Michael were the last three to come through. As they did, Tim was shouting, “—for stealing Danny and wrecking my life!” He had a small box with a button on top in his hands, and as Michael pulled the door shut, he pressed it. The sound of an immense explosion began on the other side, and then the door clicked closed.

There was silence for a moment.

“Did you know,” Tim said conversationally, “the Stranger took my brother? Old stuff, I guess. Thanks for giving me the chance to get back at it, Jon.”

“Ah.” Jon looked flustered. “Anytime?”

 _“Not_ anytime,” Georgie growled. Martin was inclined to agree.

“Right. Sorry.” Jon rubbed the back of his head.

“Happy as I’d be to have you all in my hallways forever,” Michael chuckled, “is there anywhere you’d prefer to be?”

“My place,” Georgie said immediately.

“This way, then,” Michael gestured, and they followed his lead. 

They left Jon’s chair where it lay.

Jon seemed a bit stiff, walking rather mechanically through the Distortion, and when they reached his and Georgie’s flat at last he grabbed Martin’s hand and made a beeline for the couch. 

Martin was more than happy to curl up beside him. He buried his head in Jon’s shoulder. He smelled of lavender, for some reason.

Everyone else took their usual places around the living room—Georgie and Jon had the best layout for games night, so they hosted more often than not. Melanie sat on the arm of Georgie’s armchair, Sasha and Tim shared the loveseat, Daisy and Basira squished in on the other end of Jon and Martin’s couch, and Oliver and Jude pulled a few chairs out from the dining table while Mike took the kitchen stool. Michael had only been to the apartment once, but he’d quickly claimed the spot underneath the couch. No one else could possibly have fit there, so they left it to him.

Before she sat down, Georgie took a detour into Jon’s bedroom, returning quickly with an armful of the Admiral. She dumped the cat in Jon’s lap unceremoniously, then returned to her chair.

“He’s been sleeping on your pillow a lot these days,” was all she said, as Jon’s eyes went suspiciously shiny.

“Oh,” Jon whispered. “You are a good cat, aren’t you. Yes, you are,” quietly enough that Martin thought he was the only one close enough to hear.

Martin loved this man.

“So that was fun,” Tim said, still looking rather giddy from the whole excursion, “and _shockingly_ successful. Good job, everyone.”

“Erm. Yes. Thank you, for coming for me,” Jon added awkwardly. “Elias seemed to think you wouldn’t.”

And wasn’t that just a bucket of ice water down Martin’s back.

“Elias was _there?”_ he demanded, shrill and furious. It looked like he barely beat Sasha to the punch.

“Well—erm, no. Not per se,” Jon fumbled. “He was… in my head? I think? Just before you arrived, actually.”

“What did he say, Jon?” Basira inquired. Her face was exquisitely neutral, but beside her Daisy was quivering like a hound that had just caught the scent.

“He, well. He went on for quite a bit about my destiny, and suchlike. The gist of it was that he’d coerced Nikola—er, that is, the mannequin—manipulated her into kidnapping me. Apparently he convinced her it was a good idea to use my skin for some world-ending ritual,” Jon grimaced. “He said the only way I could escape was by agreeing to become the Archivist proper.”

“And did you?” Sasha’s question was barely audible.

Jon looked at her, shame in his eyes. For a moment horror gripped Martin’s heart, bone-deep and nearly as awful as when he’d thought he’d lost Jon altogether. “No,” Jon said, and Martin breathed. Actually, it seemed like everyone else did, too. “No, I didn’t. But I—that is, a part of me—that is. I almost did. I was…” he looked away, focusing intently on petting the Admiral. “I was scared,” he admitted in a tiny voice. “I didn’t want to end the world. And I didn’t want to die, either. I’m a terrible coward, I know.” Martin opened his mouth to protest, but Jon forged on. “And that—isn’t all. You should—you should know. It wouldn’t be fair not to tell you, because Elias says this is fate and I’m afraid he might be right because there’s a part of me that really, desperately wants to become the Archivist. To… to serve the Eye.”

Martin’s heart broke a little more. He held Jon tighter, careful not to press against where his arm had been burned or dislodge the cat in his lap. “Oh, Jon,” he murmured. “You know that isn’t you, right?”

Jon shrugged miserably, and Michael’s voice curled out from under their feet. “What is _you,_ Martin?” he asked reflectively. “How do you draw that most illusory line between that which you are and that which you desire to become?”

“Well,” Georgie interrupted, voice level and clear as always, “you didn’t become the Archivist. You said no, Jon. That choice, it counts for something.”

“Why did you?” Basira looked thoughtful. “Say no, I mean.”

Jon shrugged again, looking, if possible, even more uncomfortable. “I,” he cleared his throat. “I rather thought you all wouldn’t like it.”

“Anchors,” Mike murmured.

This was getting philosophical again, which was alright because Jon seemed to be following along, but Martin’s own mind was wandering. Something occurred to him as he mulled over what Jon had said.

“Jon,” he said carefully. “Did you… did you say Nikola wanted to use your _skin?”_

Oliver coughed in the corner.

“Is that a thing that could have happened?” Martin was aghast.

“She said my terrible skincare habits meant they needed to apply a lot of moisturizer before they were ready to peel me,” Jon offered helpfully.

_“Is that why you smell like lavender?”_

“We got there in time to stop it,” Mike said feebly.

Tim looked a bit green, but beside him Sasha was back in business mode. “Right,” she said. “So how do we stop this from happening again?”

Jude perked up from where she’d been drowsing against the wall. “Okay, I know we said we were waiting until we’d figured out what happened to Jon,” she began, “but we’ve found him, and look! He’s in good condition, even! So now can we start exposing the Eyelings to the concept of murder?” She gazed at Oliver and Mike hopefully.

“Oh, we’re way ahead of you there.” Martin flapped a tired hand. “We were talking about killing Elias all the way back before Prentiss. It’s a no go.”

“What?” Jude looked horrified. “No murder at all? Why _not?”_

Tim, who currently had his head against Sasha’s shoulder, sighed loudly. “Something something life force tied to his, those who serve the Eye are bound to it, etcetera.”

Oliver was frowning.

Underneath the couch, Michael started to laugh. “What did I tell you, little Assistant?” he cackled. “How much does the Beholding resemble the Spiral, indeed!”

“Your lives aren’t tied to his,” Oliver stated. A white light shone out from behind his dark eyes. “I am the End. I would know if they were Bound, be it to fragile mortal things or the Fears themselves. You do not serve the Eye through Jonah. His life has no power over you. So says Terminus.”

“Okay,” Tim said slowly, sitting up. “So that was really spooky—”

“Good news, though!” Martin hastily added.

“—right, but can we go back to the part about _Jonah?”_ Tim had wide eyes. “Is that just, like, a turn of phrase you’re using because you’re an Avatar, or—?”

“No.” Oliver frowned. “Did no one tell you anything at all?” He turned to Jude and Mike, who were studiously avoiding his gaze. “When I agreed to a vow of silence in exchange for games night, I was under the assumption that breaking secrecy would mean _actually breaking secrecy.”_

“It’s been busy,” Jude defended.

Michael was laughing harder than ever. 

Oliver rubbed his temples. “Your ‘Elias’ is actually Jonah Magnus. He has been fleeing the grasp of Terminus for generations now by periodically transferring his eyes into new, young bodies. He has been every Head of the Institute for as long as there has been an Institute in London. It’s a futile effort, of course. Terminus gets everyone in the End. I thought we were all just waiting for that to happen. I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that we were looking to speed up the process.” He nodded at Jon. “I suppose I should’ve realized, given how worried you are about your own End or transformation. I forget not everyone is as comfortable with these things as I.”

“Wait, so,” Melanie piped in, “does that mean we _can_ kill Elias?”

“Certainly,” Oliver confirmed. “Just make sure you take out his eyes. Those are the only part of his current body that are truly still alive.”

Jude hummed, eyes shining. “That,” she grinned, “will not be a problem.”

In the end, they left her to it.

The Magnus Institute burned to the ground that afternoon. News reports marvelled at how localized the fire was, praising the emergency response for their tireless efforts at containing the blaze. Georgie thanked Jude for being so careful, and Jude preened. 

Oddly enough, there had been a minor earthquake at the same time, and the Institute sank a good ten feet into the ground as it burned. Jude said it had felt like the floor was collapsing, and happened at the same moment as Elias’ eyes melted in his face.

“It was glorious,” she said dreamily. 

Later, excavators on-site would discover signs of an extensive tunnel network, littered with chocolate wrappers and, in one place, signs of an underground tower. At its heart were the remains of an ancient skeleton, crushed beyond recognition.

No other bodies were found in the wreckage.

That night, Martin refused to leave Jon’s side, even after everyone else had gone and Georgie was getting ready for bed. “I know you don’t like to do—you know, anything more,” Martin said awkwardly, “but—is it okay if I sleep here? Just, it’s fine if you’d rather I didn’t, or I could maybe stay in your living room, or—I know, it’s weird, I just—”

Jon stood on his tiptoes to silence him with a kiss. “Martin,” he said, in a fit of uncharacteristic boldness, “would you like to share a bed with me?”

All the tension went out of Martin’s frame. “Yes,” he murmured, red-faced. “I would—I would really like that.”

So they did. Martin curled around Jon’s awkward, bony frame, and somehow even though they had all the wrong corners and edges, they fit together just right. “You know, I didn’t say it earlier,” Martin whispered as Jon turned out the light. “But. I love you, too.”

Jon fell asleep that night thinking of a future filled with light and laughter and freedom, and he didn’t dream of anything at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, please do leave a kudos for your writer, who is constantly craving validation. If you're feeling extra generous, drop a comment below! Every word is read and treasured, no matter how brief <3


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